I AM DOING NAPLOMOBLOGWHATEVERLONGESTWEIRDESTINITIALSEVER

Mom, please skip this one. Lots of swearing, ahoy. Please go back to your Downton DVDs. You WILL love that show. I promise!

I think the real title of this post should be “Bitch, please.” Because I know I suck for all of the below bird shit. BE FOREWARNED TURN BACK!!!

NO? Seriously?

OK, then.

I always forget the name of this monthly blogging thing. But I need it. There’s nothing that makes me feel more in control than a deadline. Nothing makes me feel more powerful or successful or rad than achieving some G Dammit results.

Which I never fucking achieve. Everything is day-to-day Sisyphean. Cleaning poo. Doing laundry. Picking up. Dropping off. Cleaning poo. Saying No. Saying Yes. Getting told everywhere and by everyone that what I do sucks. Not sleeping. Getting every virus in the county. Did I say cleaning poo? Making five different meals (ten, really) for the pickiest, most demanding four year olds in the universe. Yes, I know karma is a bitch, since I was/am the world’s pickiest eater. Yes, I know I’m lucky. I really, really do. I am so grateful for my children, they are so wonderful. They are everything.

But I eat not just kale and drink too much coffee/Jamba Juice to stay awake. To stay alive. I’m becoming that frumpy person. And I don’t have a lot of qualities other than my once-attractive facade.

Before

After

Truth is, I’m lazy uh, not motivated on my own. What do they call that again? Not self-paced? I always did my best work when some other boss or person was expecting me to jump over some yardstick. I have been productive as hell for over fifteen years.

How high? Was my mantra. I always exceeded that yardstick. I DID SERIOUSLY!

I realize that I NEED some accountability. I need some structure. I need the NAPLOMOFUGOMGWTF whatever it’s called. And I happen to know that the lady in charge is RAD.

So. Here I am.

A Post A DAY. Yes, I picked the shortest month of the year. Yes, that was DELIBERATE.

Feel free to skip my posts for a month. I will try to keep the self-indulging whining to a minimum.

In the immortal words of Western Career College,

“You can do it! WOW!”

Does anyone else, other than Esperanza’s partner, love The Beach Boys AND Radiohead? No? Of course not?

Well, here’s this song.

I’ve only listened to it 17 times today. Yes, I love snobby depressive-rock. Judge away. Lord knows, I do.

What Is Womanhood Now?

Two gifted writers took on the tough subject of womanhood this week. Go read these tremendous posts now. I’ll wait here and let my latest episode of “Downton Abbey” load.

Mel asked an arresting series of questions:

“We want to accomplish so much, we want to break that glass ceiling, we want to be seen as more than wives/mothers/daughters/sisters. And at the same time, we are limited by men…and we limit ourselves. We worry how others perceive us. Are we cold if we want to stay at work and not pick up a vomiting child? Do we seem uncaring if we don’t show up to school events? Offer to host Thanksgiving? Take care of an ailing parent? Do we seem like we don’t have our priorities in the right place if we take a job that requires a lot of hours away? Do we look like a failure if we can’t juggle work and parenting neatly?”

She astutely points out that no one sits around judging men for their various choices. This is true: if there is a dad at a school event, other moms often say: “Good for him for coming!” Why is that? I’ve never heard anyone say that about a working mom who shows up.

We have much lower expectations of men. We scrutinize men less.

Esperanza also has notes:

“How are we supposed to succeed when these roles are at war with each other? How can we ever be dedicated mothers and wives when our careers pull us away from our husbands and children? How can we take advantage of our education when we do so at the expense of our family? If we want, or are forced, to do all three we are setting ourselves up for failure.

And here is where the guilt comes in, and the judgement – the condemnation of ourselves that turns outwards in the disapproval of others. If we can never satisfy our own standards, we better find everyone else lacking as well.”

There is some serious wisdom here. About why we judge. About why we feel guilty. I think she’s right.

I personally feel like a loser all the time. I compare, compare, compare. Look at so-and-so who has five kids and works full-time as a lawyer. Look at her, the one who grows all her own organic food. Just being at a birthday party is often excruciating and painful. Look at X, who’s so skinny and works out. WHY DON’T YOU DO THAT?

WHY DON’T YOU DO THAT? might as well be the question that defines my life right now.

But it shouldn’t.

There was a job I once had. I thought I was a failure at this job. I looked back recently at the results of my tenure, and actually the company was terribly successful during my management. I had NO IDEA.

Have there ever been so many high-achieving women? Have there ever been women who put so much thought into being ready to be mothers? Have there ever been so many mothers who care so much and try so hard? Has there ever been a generation in history so consumed with raising their children to be happy and healthy adults? I think not.

So here’s the truth.

I had a very productive career. I worked many hours and climbed the ladder and achieved excellent results most of the time.

Now I’m a SAHM. My children are smart, happy and tremendously confident.

I work hard at my marriage.

I know you all give 120% to everything you do, too. I know you are superlative at your job, juggling life, managing your relationships.

We should feel RAD about ourselves. All of us. We rule. We really, really do.

What are YOU most proud of?

When You Are No Longer Beautiful

I’m not really sure how to write this post without sounding like a shallow, conceited bitch.

But I was once a beauty. In my own way. I never, ever looked good in a bikini. A serious handicap when you attend college here:

I was often told I had “icy” good looks. Think more this:

And less this:

I had a friend who looked like the above and we would go out together, and we attracted a totally different type of man. Which was excellent because no one wants to fight with their best friend over a stupid guy.

But there was never a shortage of male attention. In my teens, my twenties, I was disconcerted by the attention. I was scared and annoyed by it.

Now? I would kill to have it. Sometimes.

I think of what I would need to get a portion of it.

Plastic surgery.

Botox. Juvederm.

Starvation.

Trust me, I have considered them ALL. I live in a place where most moms look like this:

Remember in “Clueless”? Cher’s mom dies as a result of a “routine liposuction”? Yeah, that won’t be me.

I want my daughter to NOT rely on her good lucks. I want my daughter to respect the aging process.

My daughter tells me to wear dresses and “be pretty”. I don’t know where she gets this shit.

Meanwhile, I remember the time I was hot enough to get this:

And drove one of Hollywood’s best looking men around in my car, all the while rolling my eyes because I thought he was a huge dork.

Meanwhile, I take a photo with my iPhone and see my double-chinned visage on accident. And cringe.

Is that really me?

How do I come to terms what I once was with what I am and what I will be?

And why does it matter SO MUCH?

Free Advice: Keeping a House Tidy

Stirrup Queens had a good idea for protesting the SOPA bill: “I want to highlight the good that comes from the online world instead of withdrawing our sites in order to teach a lesson.” So she put together a round-up of bloggers offering advice on one topic they excel at.

At first, I was stumped. I honestly don’t think I do ANYTHING well. But then I realized there was a compliment routinely bestowed upon me by friends and family.

I am consistently told I keep a neat house. Which is pretty true.

Disclaimers:

1. We have a cleaner who comes twice a month. But this is new. And probably won’t last, due to financial constraints.

2. I am the kind of person who cares a lot what people think.

2. I SUCK at decorating and my carpets have stains.

OK, so what I AM good at is keeping messes out of sight. And this was even true when I lived in a small space.

Here’s how I keep clutter at a minimum:

1. I go through all of my stuff regularly: clothes, books, toys, cosmetics, movies. I am ruthless about getting rid of things that I haven’t used after 6 months.
2. I love having yard sales, selling furniture on Craig’s List and clothes through consignment stores. Not much makes me happier than making money from things I don’t use anymore. Also totally gratifying? Gathering up stuff that doesn’t sell and driving it over to Goodwill. Drop-off is easy and donations are tax-deductible.
3. I don’t purchase a lot of material goods in the first place. Not for any particularly noble reason, but mostly because if I buy something it has to be perfect. That’s why I love my Chanel purse, and don’t have any other handbags. I was taught to buy quality not quantity by a former co-worker. It’s a lesson I’ve taken to heart. Things I buy are generally built to last.
4. Things I will NEVER get rid of: a few important items imbued with sentimental value. The Amish quilt my in-laws gave us when we got engaged. The wedding china my parents purchased for us in our first year of marriage. The family photos and inherited paintings from my husband’s grandmother. My grandmother’s jeweled broach. These items may not have much financial value, but when I see them and touch them, they actually bring me joy.

In terms of keeping the house clean, every day I tidy each room and clean certain areas regularly: once a week I mop the floors in the kitchen and bathrooms. The kids are expected to put away their toys after playing. I learned long ago that it’s much easier to work a little each day than do a massive clean-up every few weeks. But this was a skill I picked up that’s basically Cognitive Behavioral Therapy: I cleaned every day for a month, then it became a permanent habit.

I also invite friends over a lot: both personal friends and play-dates. That keeps me honest.

Darcy would want me to tell you that sometimes I don’t do the dishes. Which is true. And I’m bad at keeping on top of laundry

The Gods of Twin Illness

I have friends, a husband and wife, whose twins (naturally conceived) were two when I got pregnant with our twins. We decided to do our big reveal at a party where a number of our friends, including this couple, had gathered. These were friends who we had struggled to be around during our voyage through infertility. They were all very fertile and were working on their second child. This was, to be honest, kind of a triumph that I was looking forward to. We had it all rehearsed.

“We’re pregnant! And not just with one, but two babies!” we exclaimed. This was one of the few times I left the house during that pregnancy. I wanted to see those fertile faces go into shock, then see them pass around cigars, burst into song (“This Woman’s Work” would have done nicely) and a round of hugs and backslapping would have been swell.

Instead, we caused jaws to drop. Literally. And when I looked over at my friends, the twins parents, they were silent for a good few minutes. The mom turned several shades paler than her normal olive skin tone. And she said: “There will be times, like when they get sick, when you will want to cry to the gods, WHY?”

It was rather like in Sleeping Beauty (or Sleeping Bob, in our gender non-specific book where a princess wakes up Bob) when Mallificent makes her ominous proclamation.

And indeed, when the twins are both sick and when I am also sick, like this week, it is a grueling experience. But there’s a secret benefit too: lying in our big bed, the three of us, watching “Pinnochio”, getting up at various times to puke or, you know, WHATEVER, eating crackers and applesauce, apple juice and all sorts of non-routine food. It felt like we were kind of a team. True I was doing most of the heavy lifting and all of my no TV, read books, play outside, make up stories work went out the window. But the three of us snuggling, smelling of barf and leaking mucous, together. It was gross, but somehow I got the sense that I would remember this feeling fondly.

Later.

And for that, instead, I thank the gods.

Book Tour: “Found” by Jennifer Lauck

One of my favorite bloggers in the whole world is Lori Lavender Luz from Write Heart, Open Mind. Last year I participated in her book club for Melissa Ford’s “Life From Scratch” and had a tremendous amount of fun. Mel, I am still anxiously awaiting the sequel

So when Lori announced this year’s book tour, for Jennifer Lauck’s “Found”, I was eager to sign up. The topic, about a writer’s search for her birth mom, piqued my interest. While I have learned about adoption from bloggers like Lori, I don’t know that much about it from the point of view of someone who has been adopted. Adoption was a road not taken for me during my journey through infertility, but it was seriously considered.

Jennifer Lauck first came to public attention after Oprah singled out her memoir “Blackbird” and it became a New York Times bestseller. “Blackbird” detailed her extremely grim, almost Dickensian upbringing: think Oliver Twist minus the happy ending, plus a hippie cult. Adopted by a mother with a terminal illness, Lauck tended to her as a nurse until she passed away. Soon after her adopted father died too, but not before marrying a “wicked stepmother” who lent Lauck out to work for a sinister religious group. Lauck is then passed from family member to family member, sexually assaulted and used by the relatives who eventually took her in and formally adopted her. She worked essentially as a servant for them and they collected her adopted parents’ benefits, supposedly for her college education. Although when she’s ready for college, she’s told the money is gone.

To say that Jennifer Lauck did not have a positive experience with adoption is the understatement of the year. The people and institutions that were supposed to help her failed her time and time again.

“Found” details Lauck’s search for her birth mother, the hoops she had to jump through to find her, their reunification and the bittersweet afterward. Lauck is very honest about her feelings of abandonment, the physical sensations she feels being around her birth mother and why it is and was so important to her self-identity to know the biological DNA and definition behind her own temperament and personality.

I was especially moved by Lauck’s writing when she described how her son was physically removed from her after his birth. It made me identify with her in a flash:

“I was a mother now. I wanted my child. The baby fussed and the nurse patted his back as if he was hers. I sent my husband my best ‘If you don’t get that baby, I’ll kill you’ look. My eyebrows pulled together, my jaw went tight, and my eyes went narrow. As he reached out, yet again attempting to fulfill my primal wishes, the nurse shooed him away. She said something about hospital rules and my being overly emotional.”

Something I haven’t talked about here is that my physician recently diagnosed me with PTSD. She thinks it’s because of my miscarriages, but also the separation of my son from me upon his birth. He was put in the NICU when he was born, like Lauck’s son. I will never forget what bad shape I was in after my C-section: I almost suffocated due to an allergic reaction to a medication and I was in tremendous pain because they had to take me off painkillers altogether because of that reaction. (I imagine it’s how soldiers felt after being operated after the Civil War.) I was still so incredibly determined to see my son when I heard he could not be with me. Thankfully my daughter was OK, and had been brought in to be with me, but the morning after my C-section I walked to the NICU, slowly and in great discomfort. Each step I took was agony and the walk took 20 minutes (it felt longer) but the physical NEED to see my son was overwhelming. It overcame pain that was a level 8, exhaustion and fear for myself. Nothing mattered but that I see my son.

I have nightmares every night that I am unable to get to my children. That I am motionless, that some natural disaster or nuclear war is coming and I am powerless to stop it from coming for my twins. I wake up screaming many nights. So I am very thankful to Lauck for identifying so clearly that EXACT moment that caused the PTSD. And for telling me that I’m not alone in feeling that way. I thank her very much for that.

So, onto the questions!

1. Jennifer writes a lot about the first mom’s biological bond with her child. She writes of this bond as primal, almost as if adoptive moms will never be able to completely bond with their children, and I wonder what advice she would give to adoptive parents, particularly, women who want to be honest with their children about their birth stories and those who may even have functional open adoptions where every member of the triad respects the other.

Based on my own experience, I do think the biological bond is primal. But I can’t speak for all birth mothers: I was ready to have children, desperate to have them, even. I do think, after reading “Found”, that being aware of a primal bond is a really good idea.

What part of Ms. Lauck’s adoption journey challenged your idea of adoption the most?

I think what surprised me most was how small interactions with her birth mother Catherine could have so much more meaning than just face value. For example, Catherine opts not to pick Lauck up at the airport gate and instead tells her to meet her at the curb. Lauck’s reaction is this:

“Yes, Catherine is pissed.
No, she really didn’t want me to come.
Yes, my heart is broken.
No, I’m not surprised.
I cry as I stand at the curb, waiting.”

The smallest gesture causes a chain reaction, leaving her feeling utterly rejected. I think this is a most telling interaction, and a good one. From reading some open adoption blogs, it does seem that when a birth parent is late or doesn’t show up for an appointment, there is a big emotional reaction from the child. I appreciated Lauck’s honesty here.

In reading this book, I, an adoptive mother, was struck by how less than ideal Jennifer’s childhood was. My instinct is to blame the death of her adoptive parents and the subsequent bouncing around, abuses, etc that she suffered, for her trauma and feelings of abandonment as opposed to looking to the fact that she was adopted. Obviously I have a vested interest in this perception and I am acutely aware of this and that I need to force my mind to stay open to see the entire picture. I wonder what others think…am I alone in trying to downplay the adoption issue? Is her experience magnified because of her repeated experiences of trauma/abandonment or are her feelings fairly typical of adult adoptees?

I grappled with this question too. What if Lauck had been adopted by others? What if her situation were different? I haven’t read any other accounts of adult adoptees, so it’s hard for me to say. I do know her childhood was appallingly terrible, unique even in its utter lack of stability, love, trust and hope. The parents I know from the ALI community who have adopted children are so incredibly committed to loving them, providing the best possible environment for them, reading constantly about how best to parent them, and caring intensely for them. It’s therefore really hard for me to believe that excellent parenting doesn’t matter at all. I believe it matters a great deal.

And to continue to the next leg of this book tour, please visit the main list here.

Lurking No More

Stirrup Queens has declared this to be International Delurking Blog Week, or something like that. I love the idea. It means: Welcome to My Site! And I’d love to meet you.

If you’ve never commented before (Mom!) or comment frequently, I’d love to get to know a little bit about you:

1. What’s the best TV show, ever?
2. Are you dealing with Adoption, Loss or Infertility?
3. What was the lamest pickup line you’ve ever heard?

Thanks for reading!

The Devastation of Pregnancy Loss: A Profile of Courtney Cheng

1 in 8 people of child-bearing age in the United States is infertile. (Resolve) The average price of one IVF treatment cycle in the US is $13,774 and American facilities only met one quarter of the estimated demand for fertility treatment. (European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology) And it’s no wonder: the average income of a household in the US? $46,500 (Wikipedia) which means that an IVF cycle would cost the average American household 29% of its yearly income pretax. I’m tired of passively reading about stories in the mainstream media of exotic and rich and whimsical infertile couples who fly to Bhutan and worship fertility idols, have twins over the age of 50 or have sextuplets. I think we all are. They don’t represent the average struggle of the Adoption/Loss/Infertility experience. So, I thought I would write my own series, Faces of ALI, about ordinary women who are going through the often difficult journey that is ALI. These are their stories.

All photos copyrighted by Bodega Bliss

On January 24, 2010, Courtney Cheng started a blog to document her pregnancy to friends and family members who lived across the country. The first post on the nascent blog, which she titled Bodega Bliss after the idyllic Northern California hamlet where she had met, married her husband and settled down in, was called “Just What the Internet Needs” and announced her new hobby: she would be a mommy blogger. The post was self-deprecating and full of the usual sentiments a mother-to-be would feel: hope, fear, excitement and joy.

“I’m feeling all kinds of emotions. A little scared for how much our life is going to change, excited to go on this journey only given to women, I’m even looking forward to watching my body change (I say this now still looking exactly the same way I did a month ago). And I’m hoping you’ll be there with me during the whole thing.”

Cheng, then 29, posted a photo of herself and her “bump” at 6 weeks, a positive pregnancy test and a list of her symptoms. (Tears after hearing Tegan and Sarah’s “Where Does the Good Go?” and feeling tired.) There were a few tussles with her insurance coverage: she was denied basic health services because of an abnormal pap smear she had received 6 years ago. Then her husband, Tim Cheng, posted his own whimsical take on the thrill both parents-to-be were experiencing on February 7, 2010:

“My gal is pregnant and loves random names like Sophielillla Jackson and such. No not really, my favorite name so far is Finn. We are stoked. We have a walk-in closet that Court thinks might do as a room for the kid. That’s great, we will stick the child in there with the jackets, it will be warm. I like how she’s always giving updates on what is developing inside. She’s doing yoga which is great, I’m proud of Mommy. We’ll keep you updated on when Sooophillilla or Napoleon is born. Or plain Jim.”

This innocent and carefree post was followed by an excruciating untitled one seven days later, on Valentine’s Day of all things. This haunting entry, untitled as if the subject matter was too awful to deserve to be named, describes in terrible and honest detail the physical and mental anguish Courtney felt as she miscarried her first child:

“When I had woke up that morning I had my hands on my belly and had mentioned to Tim that I could feel my pulse in my uterus. I thought it was just the blood going to my baby helping it grow, but I realize now that’s not why the blood was rushing there. Tim was here with me when I passed the tissue our baby. I can’t tell you what that felt like. In between my shaking and sobs, I wanted it all to be a nightmare. This wasn’t how I was supposed to be having our baby, this wasn’t supposed to be happening.”

The next few months of her blog, Courtney alternated between apologizing to her readers that she was so sad and promising them she would feel better and describing how the loss effected her in stark outlines:

Even when I’m covering up the sad like today, I still just want to be pregnant. I want to be having that baby that I’m not having any more and is buried beneath a tree. It’s just not fair.

Courtney had not expected her optimistically named blog to turn into something else altogether: a diary of what it was like to go through a miscarriage. There was a little good news sprinkled in those first six months of writing: Courtney had finally gotten full-fledged health benefits through her employer, a non-profit agency. She had been forced to go to a clinic populated mostly with meth addicts because of her lack of benefits before, so she was hopeful about seeing a real OB-GYN in a real practice.

On July 21, Courtney told her readers a shocking secret: she had been pregnant but hadn’t told anyone because she was afraid. Unfortunately, her fears were proved correct:

Without going into specifics, the baby most likely died somewhere around 6 1/2 weeks. I did see a heartbeat at one point, but it didn’t calm my fears of what ultimately turned out to be true. They did a D & C as soon as we found out; I was 9 weeks, 4 days.

If the first miscarriage had burst the bubble of Bodega Bliss Courtney the newlywed had felt, the second one was scary and disturbing on another level: something might be wrong with her body. She pressed her OB-GYN for testing and answers. The costs of the testing were not cheap and as a middle-class couple, those tests were an expense they were at a disadvantage to pay:

“One of the 12 vials of blood they’re testing has the description of “MTHFR” on the estimated price list for the tests. HA! And in case you were wondering what that MTHFR costs, it’s $390.00. Out of $2,721.75 for all of them. MTHFR!”

In addition, the D & C Courtney never wanted to have cost $15,628.16, and she was responsible for paying 25% of that fee.

The financial expense and personal tragedy were weighing heavily on Courtney at this point. She was constantly seeing pregnant women at the local grocery store. One small ray of hope: her OBGYN had found that the MTHFR test had come back positive, and while she was not a fertility expert and Courtney and her husband were without the funds to see a fertility expert, she said she would check with one and find out what this positive result meant.

A major problem for Courtney is that so little is really known about the condition she was most likely suffering from: Recurrent Pregnancy Loss (RPL). According to Reproductive Biology Associates, the definition of RPL “is two to three consecutive spontaneous abortions (miscarriages) before 20 weeks gestation. Sporadic Abortion: A single pregnancy loss is a common event occurring in 10-20% of all human pregnancies. Approximately 1-5% pregnant women have a diagnosis of RPL (40,000 – 200,000 U.S. couples/year).”

Another problem with RPL is what might happen next: “49% of women with two consecutive losses and no live-born children will have a loss in their next pregnancy, whereas 29% of women with two losses and at least one live-born child will have a loss in their next pregnancy.”

All was not hopeless, though: “Approximately 70% of couples experiencing RPL will have a liveborn child without medical therapy. Most of these patients will be under 35 years old.”

Courtney was only 30 years old. If she rolled the dice, she had a pretty good chance luck would be on her side. But the two losses in less than a year were weighing heavily on her.

“But some days are still really bad, the kind where all I want to do is curl up into a ball and let the tears fall. I want to cry for the unfairness of it all, for the social awkwardness and for being forced to give up my babies. I guess it could be the weather; this rain makes it easy to want to stay in bed and not face the world, to hide from anything or anyone out there that would remind me of what I lost. Maybe it’s why I don’t seem to want to go out any more. I’ve been perfectly content staying in every weekend for months now.”

Her blog was now what she would have never imagined it would be: a blog about recurrent miscarriage. But she was finding solace from the writing of others, like Kate Inglis from Sweet/Salty. And she met women in her area through blog exchanges. Her blog picked up a steady following of readers who were drawn to her excellent, spare writing and her story: her ordinary yet extraordinary experience with loss. Those readers were either going through ALI pain of their own or recovering from ALI trauma in the past. And she put into words what many of them couldn’t say or wouldn’t say.

She began Eastern medicine treatment, which was also expensive, but less expensive than the thousands of dollars she would have to pay for fertility treatments and consultations. She took folic acid, multivitamins, ate healthfully, exercised, didn’t drink.

Finally in May she found out she was pregnant for a fourth time. (She had also had a “chemical pregnancy” earlier.) She shared the news selectively and did not post about it. In fact, her readers didn’t find out about it until June 29th in a post chillingly called “Four”.

Four. I’ve lost four babies. That number is daunting. That number changes everything. At three, there was still a chance, my percentages were still pretty great. But four? At four they’re not so good. At four I have to start thinking that this might not happen for us. At four I have to start imagining alternatives – alternatives I never wanted to face.

To read Courtney’s blog from start to now is to understand, in words cherry-picked from a uniquely understanding heart, how the human spirit can endure so much in the quest for its heart’s desire. And how, sometimes, the heart just can’t take any more misery and tragedy. Sometimes, the orchestra music doesn’t swell, the happy ending we’ve grown to expect and want and desire, from Hollywood, from friends on Facebook, from classic literature thousands of years old don’t arrive. Our own endings get delayed somehow, or sometimes they arrive in a different form. Sometimes they don’t arrive at all. This period of suffering we in the ALI community go through changes us, probably forever. Loss is a tribal tattoo written secretly across the souls of those who undergo it. Most of us are quiet, but we will see in another’s eyes a signal of that tattoo we each carry.

The difference is, Courtney lays that tattoo bare for everyone to see, whether they are in the tribe or not.

Courtney’s story is in the middle: she’s in fact still paying the medical bills from her last D & C in June and more tests a reproductive endocrinologist did in August. The large community of bloggers who have rallied around her want more than anything for her Hollywood ending to arrive. But Courtney, with her unique voice and wisdom, says this:

If I really think about it, though, I do know one hope for 2012: find some freaking happiness. And not in the form of a baby. In the form of I’m-going-to-sleep-now-because-I-can’t-wait-to-wake-up-to-my-life kind of way….not the I-don’t-want-to-go-to-sleep-because-that-means-I-have-to-wake-up-again way of the past. Because that way is getting old. That way is so 2011.

And if Courtney’s words don’t reflect the triumph of the human soul, I don’t know what does.

The New York Times Strikes Again

There has been another article about infertility published in The New York Times, this time a first person account by a woman who went through several miscarriages. At first as I read the piece I thought: perfect. An acclaimed novelist writing about her experience with infertility! How can this be bad?

But somehow, the article reinforced the agenda we’ve seen with The New York Times already. (Click here for a refresher.)

The author, Charlotte Bacon, apparently easily gave birth to her first baby at 35 but before she had her second child, she suffered two losses and had to pursue fertility treatments. (I’m guessing: she says when she was 41, through “a stark amalgam of science, chilly doctors and who knows what measure of luck my daughter arrived, strong, sweet and fully loved.”)

Then, during a trip to Bhutan, Ms. Bacon goes to a fertility temple called Chimi and prays to have another child.

Five months later, she’s pregnant at the age of 44 with a healthy baby boy.

The story is beautifully written. Ms. Bacon tells her tale well, and is a sympathetic narrator.

My problem is not with her story so much as with her profile. Again, someone faced with infertility in The New York Times:

1. Has plenty of discretionary income. Between the trip to Bhutan (well out of the reach financially for most people) and this statement (“I don’t generally pray, much less to fertility goddesses. I don’t fall to my knees for anyone or anything, except a reliable nanny.”), I’m assuming that Ms. Bacon and her husband are fairly well-off. Maybe that IS a wrong guess. But nothing in the article contradicts this impression.

2. Decides on a whim that they’d like another child. “A friend calls these unexpected additions ‘martini babies’, yet I can’t even blame alcohol.”

I don’t know. I’m working on my big secret project and it’s making me wonder why some people have so many resources and the majority of others barely stay afloat.

It’s not just the 1% who read The New York Times, just like it’s not just the 1% who are infertile. 1 in 8 of us of child-bearing age in the United States is infertile. (Resolve) The average price of one IVF treatment cycle in the US is $13,774 and American facilities only met one quarter of the estimated demand for fertility treatment (European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology). And it’s no wonder: the average income of a household in the US? $46,500 (Wikipedia) which means that an IVF cycle would cost the average American household 29% of its yearly income PRETAX!! We all know how crappy insurance coverage is of infertility treatment. (And feel free to share your own experience below.)

I really would like to see The New York Times cover one of the 75% of Americans who can’t afford infertility treatments. Don’t make it a lifestyle story, fine. We know our boring non-1% lives are ineligible for that kind of treatment. But write about us in the health section or the news section.

Do you agree? Or have I gone all Marxist on you

The Dreaded New Year, Resolutions and Greyhounds

“It seems wrong and unfair that Christmas, with its stressful and unmanageable financial and emotional challenges, should first be forced upon one wholly against one’s will, then rudely snatched away just when one is starting to get into it. Was really beginning to enjoy the feeling that normal service was suspended and it was OK to lie in bed as long as you want, put anything you fancy into your mouth, and drink alcohol whenever it should pass your way, even in the mornings. Now, suddenly we are all supposed to snap into self-discipline like lean teenage greyhounds.”

“Bridget Jones Diary”, Helen Fielding

I always thought this particular piece of writing captured perfectly the strange dichotomy between the indulgent holiday season and the resulting Spartan overreaction we all are faced with on New Years’ Day.

The last thing I feel like today is a lean, teenaged greyhound. Oof.

I am mulling over a new idea I have for 2012. It involves radical changes to our whole life.

But right now, I honestly can’t be bothered. Maybe tomorrow will be seem more…inspiring. But today, I think I’m just going to read The Creme de la Creme at Stirrup Queens and continue being lazy.

Are YOU planning any extreme resolutions or lifestyle changes in 2012?

Post #200: On Passivity, Confrontations and Trying to Learn From Mistakes

“But sometimes, if I don’t push you in the right direction, you end up standing still.”

Leslie Knope, Parks and Recreation

Today I had the tremendous pleasure of meeting the fabulous blogger Luna and her beautiful children. She is so smart, witty and kind. And both of her daughters are gorgeous. They were so well-behaved and just a joy. After reading the surprising, harrowing and exhilarating tale of baby Z (which was more thrilling than most books I read this year), it was so beautiful and moving to see her with her mother and sister.

And then there were my children. I love them dearly (I know I don’t need to tell YOU this) but my children are different than me. Darcy is someone I would describe as a strong personality. He confronts life head-on, tackles problems directly and quickly. Like the literary character I named him after, he’s blunt, forceful and says what he thinks.

I am none of these things. I am supportive, nurturing, complimentary, and passive. I’d run a mile to avoid a confrontation.

My children are strong-willed. I am not. So parenting them is a challenge.

The way I have dealt with life is sometimes passive. I do my best and work hard but don’t chase down the great opportunities. I let pretty good opportunities come to me and so my life is filled with mediocre achievements. I have a blog with mediocre traffic. I haven’t redesigned the site yet, because the designers I reached out to were busy for months in advance. So I…took no further action.

Anyway, this brings me to the tussle I had with Esperanza, and it was pretty close to the fight between Ann Perkins and Leslie Knope on my favorite ever episode of “Parks and Recreation”. In the episode, Leslie, a type A go-getter gets annoyed at Ann for not pursuing an opportunity and says often Ann stands still.

Esperanza’s concern with me is that I wasn’t taking any strong steps forward to developmental specialists who could help me manage the kids better.

Here’s an exact copy of our exchange, in which I admit I was humiliated by the way my children behaved around Luna’s angelic children.

Me: “I had a playdate with Luna today and the kids were awful. I was so embarrassed.”

And then she responded, via text, this:

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, but if I were you I’d be doing something proactive with the kids. Trying a new strategy or having people from Xxxxx help you out. You can learn that stuff and get better at it.”

And then, I burst into tears.

The truth is I have been working with a child development specialist to try to help me better manage the twins. She tells me they should be incredibly successful adults, but as a non-strong-willed adult, it is very difficult for me to maintain the energy needed to provide the structure, the nos, the answers, the feedback they need. I do it, every day, and will continue to do it, but at great cost to me.

Esperanza’s right: I need to continue to take a very proactive stand with my kids.

They say you can change a habit in 30 days. Is it possible to change an innate personality trait, like passivity, and get rid of it? If I could and standing up to them all the time wasn’t so exhausting, maybe parenting would be easier?

Have you ever been able to change an actual part of your personality? If so, how?

The Year of Living Joyfully: What Did I Learn?

I proclaimed 2011 the year that I would live joyfully. I even said I would try to write every day about joy.

Eh, I mostly complained.

I found that trying to live joyfully was not really practical. As my dad said a few weeks ago:

“Maybe joy just happens and you enjoy those few moments. But you don’t try to plan your day around it.”

I think that’s maybe the definitive word on the subject.

I did make five unexpected discoveries through the process of writing this blog which directly led to more happiness in my life.

1. Friends. I was really lonely in my SAHM life, and until this year didn’t have any real friends who understood the sort of strange hold infertility still had on me. They couldn’t comprehend how anxious I was to keep my twins safe and secure. They didn’t get why I was so devastated by my miscarriage, since I already had two kids. I pasted a fake smile on my face everywhere I went and acted the way I thought someone should. It felt like a charade.

But this blog opened the door to a whole secret society of women who wrote about similar feelings. About survival guilt, the need to always be grateful. These women were funny, bitter, real, optimistic and helpful. You all made my life so much better, richer, thoughtful and more fun. I really can’t thank you all enough.

2. The importance of making occasions special

I tended to slog through life as if everything was a chore to be gotten through. That is a natural tendency of mine. It’s probably some sort of genetic thing, plus a legacy of the pain and tragedy endured in my 30s. But this year we did a few things that were SPECIAL. We went to Disneyland, we saw my parents for Thanksgiving, my daughter and I saw The Nutcracker for the first time, I went to a concert with Esperanza and Bodega on my birthday, Darcy got a hotel suite for our anniversary. Those moments when I was able to break free from routine and enjoy either the wonder of others or be silly or live glamorously: those were joyful moments and I think I did a pretty good job of inhabiting them fully. It’s those moments that I remember as I look back on 2011.

3. The lessons of “Status Anxiety”

I tried to embrace different philosophies in my attempt to seek joy. Most of them didn’t help me, and a comment Lut Cass made stuck with me for the most part:

“I find that philosophy was invented by men who had too few household chores.”

Isn’t that awesome?

One book, though, I did enjoy: “Status Anxiety”, a prescient slim tome written almost a decade ago. Botton encourages people to not keep up with the Joneses, but to live a simpler, slower life devoted to more bohemian ideals. He also taught me that spending time with my peers in my area, who only really talk about working out, how perfect their kids are, remodeling and starving themselves is not good for me. Each time I would return from speaking to people like this, a little bit of my soul would die. That’s why the blogosphere is so necessary to me. Y’all are real and down-to-earth.

4. I love writing

Blogging, which some people consider writing and others don’t, is something that makes me tremendously happy. Everyone in my family is a published writer (my brother was nominated for a Pushcart this year, my dad is a well-known Bay Area journalist and novelist, my mother has won several major poetry contests) so I was the rebel who worked for the “man” and turned my back on my heritage. I so didn’t want to be a writer, mostly because I would never measure up to my lineage. Now I know that while I am by far the lesser writer of the Carrolls, I don’t really care anymore. I just love what I’m doing.

5. Laughing is really important

Whether it was:

- Texting with Esperanza about what cars are the douchiest. (Her: Audis. Me: Range Rovers.) And our bottom fives. (1. War 2. The Babble Top 100 Mom Blogs List 3. Social inequity 4. The Kardashians 5. Disease)
- Hilarious Tweets from The Bloggess

A violent windstorm outside just blew Beyonce over. Victor yelled "CHICKEN DOWN." I do love that man.—
  (@TheBloggess) November 26, 2011

- Laughing at Darcy’s stories
- Listening to the epic tale of the time well-known, sincere, urbane Brooklyn musicians Matt and Kim played at a last-minute concert promoted and organized by my brother. The concert featured a buddy’s first (and last) performance as “Mr Hand”: he played samples of obscure dialogue like “I smell a rat” over loud, techno beats – and Caged Match to the Death. Talk about a mismatch of audience. “Kim looked really scared.”
- Cake Wrecks

SO that’s what I learned. In short, laugh, have friends, enjoy the fun times and don’t hang out with douchebags.

What did 2011 teach you? What’s your current Bottom 5?

It’s a Wonderful Life: A Study of The White Picket Fence and the Life Less Chosen

So, in case you didn’t know, I grew up with Christmas. My dad is even one of those Bill O’Reilly “War on Christmas” guys. I love everything about Christmas: the carols, the pageantry, the food, the eggnog and most especially the tree. Each year when I was growing up, just like out of some wacky sitcom, my family would pick out a tree that was too big. Too big to tie to the top of the car, too big to fit into our ridiculously rickety tree stand. My dad would swear a lot the day we brought home the tree. But somehow my mom would always make it work. She had a handmade skirt that she always tied around the tree as the first order of business. Then we would listen to a TERRIBLE record of Christmas carols by, I believe, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, as we decorated the tree. The worst song was called “Christmas Tree”, a cheesy, 80′s style ballad, complete with a 40 year old woman pretending to be a six-year-old girl. “ChhhhrrriiissstttmmAAAAS TTTRREEEE!!!”, she would sing, in what was supposed to be the winningly off-key style of an adorable little girl, but in reality was a banshee wail which would send our family pets running into another room in terror. Ah, memories.

My husband is Jewish and one of the things I gave up for loving him was Christmas. I do get a few things: I get to take our children to The Nutcracker and each year I watch “A Wonderful Life”, which is one of my all-time favorite movies. Inevitably, it makes me emotional for several reasons: the first is the regret that I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore. But the second and more powerful reason is that I don’t know that there has ever been a more accurate depiction of the American Dream in all of its complicated glory and splendor and difficulty.

I mean, who better embodies the 1% than Mr. Potter? So much about the movie is timeless: the ideals of small town life versus the constraints of ambition; the desire to travel, see the world and make it on your own versus the pressures and the constraints of family and romantic love.

George Bailey is seriously flawed: he’s often sarcastic, he tells it like it is, but he’s an idealist ultimately who realizes his family is the most crucial element of his life. Honestly, he reminds me so much of Darcy and that may be what I love most about him. But there is nothing sappy about his eventual realizations and the movie has very, very dark moments.

I feel the closest modern-day equivalent we have to this movie is “How I Met Your Mother”, which honestly does contrast both the joys but also the boredom and sacrifice involved in choosing a traditional married life with the glamorous, fun, yet sometimes sad “life less chosen” path: Robin clearly won’t have children and it is doubtful now that Barney will either. Although I’m pretty sure they will have an awesome and “legen-wait for it-dary” life. Mostly.

Anyway, I envy George Bailey his beautiful Victorian house and his many children and his friends and relations who bail him out of trouble in the end, because he has helped them so many times in the past. But he would envy me too: he’d envy me for my travels and adventures. He’d envy me for going to Paris and living in London and honeymooning in Africa.

And in the end, that’s the movie’s great point. We all have Wonderful Lives. Just by being alive and being in others’ lives and trying to do good.

“Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”

Indeed.

Why I Won’t Ever Send a Holiday Card

Ah, the holidaze. Time for the beautiful cards, postcards and letters telling friends and family how wonderful Madeline and Jackson are. Winsome photos of beautiful couples and lovely families show up in those not-so-personal envelopes from Shutterfly and Tiny Prints. I secretly LOATHED receiving those envelopes from 2003-2007.

Obviously, those were the years we wanted children, but they were not forthcoming.

In 2004, we decided to take a photo with our surrogate child: our Corgi. We adopted our Corgi as a puppy in 2003, when we first moved back from London.

I am not a very religious person, although I did try throughout my childhood to be so. I grew up in a conservative church which preached that girls who were the victims at the age of 9 of incest should still become mothers. I was taught that women who had been raped, women who were going to die if they bore a child should still bear that child, even if they both died. I fought with my pastor about these policies: I am proud I did so. But I was taught that my attitude was wrong, evil even. It turned me off organized religion, probably forever.

But I believe in one thing and that is the power of luck. I think that holiday cards tempt fate for me. I will never, ever send one out.

Why is this?

Well, in 2004, after I had suffered from and recovered from a debilitating illness, and when we were trying very hard to make a baby and it wasn’t happening, we decided to send out a card of us and our dog. Our Corgi, which we had bought from a reputable breeder and assiduously trained at the Humane Society. This dog was our child, we thought. Our surrogate child, in lieu of the human baby we were unable to produce. We took a lovely picture of our “family”.

Luck did not enjoy our family card. As soon as it was sent, I noticed an unusual presence of black crows in our back yard. I had never seen any before 2004, and suddenly I saw them everywhere and that continued until 2006. Also, after that card was sent, our dog changed his behavior. Before a cuddly and friendly and reassuring presence, our beloved dog started growling at us and our extended family. It grew worse and worse until he bit my brother-in-law hard enough to break his skin. I took him to several behaviorists until one told us that our dog was the most aggressive dog she’d ever seen in her long career. She told me there was no way that he was going to change, he was only to get worse until he caused serious harm.

I did not accept her answer. Our dog was the one bright light in my life: to have him become dangerous was inconceivable. I asked for all her advice, and gave him lots of love and discipline as recommended: training him (again) to heel on walks, that I was his master by treat-training him. Helping our dog became my whole life.

Until the day Darcy went out of town and the dog attacked me. As part of the training, I could never allow him to enter a door before me because then he would know he was the Alpha Dog. Well, I was on the phone, and not paying attention that he was trailing me down the hallway. He sprinted ahead of me, entered a door before me, and attacked me. His form of attack was to relentlessly bite my ankles until I collapsed onto the floor, and then he began attacking my stomach, by biting me. It was a ruthless attack. I somehow dropped the phone, got up, ran into the pantry and slammed the door behind me. I then used the phone in there to call the breeder, who took the attack very seriously.

She came that day (drove from several hours away) to assess the situation. I stayed in the pantry until she arrived. Once she arrived, she decided that the dog was aggressive beyond what a normal person could handle. She took away the dog.

And there began a new sort of hell. In the addition to my infertility, I was also a failure to my dog, whom I loved more than most things on earth.

And the crows circled my back yard, cawing, triumphant. They proclaimed my ineptitude. I wanted a dog I could love. Not even that was going to be allowed.

And I crawled into the fetal position. And stayed there for a weekend.

It was all because of that holiday card. Never again would I want to proclaim any type of domestic bliss of any kind. Because the black crows of doom still linger. This morning, early, I saw them landing one by one, in our back yard.

I grabbed the broom out of our pantry and I chased those crows away. Never again will I let them linger on my property, cawing that I don’t deserve happiness. But nor will I flaunt any happiness. Because if I do, they will circle our home, overjoyed at my hubris.

Do you believe in bad luck? Do you think that flaunting happiness can lead to hubris?

Creme de la Creme: My Pick

I totally forgot to submit my entry for Creme de la Creme this year. Last year, I had only blogged a handful of times, so it was relatively easy to pick my favorite out. This year I have quite a few posts to choose from. And, so on the very last deadline, I am submitting something.

It’s a dilemma to choose one. Should it be what you consider to be your best work? The one that got the most comments? The one you thought maybe changed things? (Or tried to?)

I decided to go with the third option. I took The New York Times to task for their very strange coverage of infertility. I’m sure no one who matters saw it, but at least I tried to change something? Or maybe I am self-aggrandizing. I’m sure that’s what Darcy would say.

Without further ado. Voila!

How did you pick your post, if you chose to participate this year?

Top 10 Things Bugging Me Right Now

I have been really crabby lately. This is typical of me in December: I have Birthday Euphoria, then a Birthday Hangover when I remember that I’m old.

So if you hate rant-y cranky posts, feel free to skip this one. And without further ado, here’s my countdown of the Top 10 Things Bugging Me Right Now!

Insert rimshot.

#10. Range Rover drivers. I hate you. There is nothing about your SUV that’s special other than the price you paid. Why should you get to run red lights, cut cars off in traffic and text?
#9. People who are ripping the new Crystal Bridges Museum in Arkansas. Yes, the Wal-Mart family is too wealthy (the 6 heirs apparently are worth more than the bottom 30% of Americans). But to say that Arkansans don’t deserve a world-class museum is just mean. They totally do. Alice Walton, thumbs-up from me on Crystal Bridges.
#8. People who screw up their faces and say “AR-kan-SAH? when I tell them my parents live there. Jeez. Not everyone lives in NYC or LA.
#7. The Kardashians. OK, I have a fondness for Khloe. But the vapidness and the materialism and the ubiquity! Go to Tasmania and hide in a cave for a year, Kardashian Klan. Then, we’ll talk.
#6. That time today when I bought a root beer, brought it home, tasted it and realized it was diet. That sucked!
#5. The a-ha moment I had today: if you didn’t start blogging before 2005, you’re pretty much fucked.
#4. The fact that basically every part of my day is filled with confrontation. I’d run a mile to avoid a confrontation, so dealing with them constantly is harsh.
#3. Super Volcanos! You scare me.
#2. The cost of education.
#1. Ashton Kutcher.

What’s bugging you? Please feel free to share!

Can We Get Rid of the Beauty Olympics?

“But if you’re not part of the ‘Beauty Olympics’, you can still become a very interesting person.”

Sex and The City pilot episode

Esperanza tweeted this article yesterday, which I read with a sinking feeling. Because although I had vowed not to use the word “pretty” with my daughter too much, or compliment her on her appearance, I still do. I compliment her on the way she looks more than I compliment her on cleaning up, or reading a book, or building towers or reciting her numbers properly. It’s like I am fighting an ingrained instinct and it is a knee-jerk reaction to say, “You look beautiful” when she’s dressed in a gorgeous feminine outfit. It’s like I just blurt it out. And it’s not just me: it’s my husband too. And most of our peers, friends and relations.

I know the way you look is important, but where I live it might be more important than almost anywhere else. I live in a very outdoorsy place where women are expected to be “fit” and hike and work out a lot. It is rare to see anyone in my town who is overweight. In my early 30s, I worked out more than any other time in my history: I hiked, I ran, I worked out at the gym. I ate normally though. I didn’t overeat and I didn’t particularly indulge in high-calorie foods. But I was not pin-thin. No one told me, “You look great!”

Then I had a really bad episode of acid-reflux disease a year and a half ago, and had to cut out most foods. Eating almost anything was extremely painful. I lost 10 pounds in about 2 months. I looked awful: my skin tone was poor, I had dark circles under my eyes, I was extremely tired.

And I got about 50 comments from people saying they thought I looked “awesome” and a number of questions about my “new” working out habits.

That’s when I realized that most of the women I would see looking “fit” in their yoga pants didn’t eat much.

All of this is a preamble to what is really bothering me. A friend of mine from high school, who had a terrible, life-threatening battle with anorexia back then, passed away at the age of 38 a month ago. We lost touch, partially because she was mad at me for raising flags about her eating with friends and a family member. I wasn’t the only one who was concerned, but for some reason I took the blame. I have been feeling awful about her passing. She was a sweet and good person. And I feel badly that I didn’t try to get back in touch with her. I don’t know what caused her death, maybe the anorexia was not involved.

But obsession with appearance is not good for our girls. The truth that beauty fades, that you need to have other attributes to make it in life is NOT taught in mainstream media. Women are praised mostly for being “hot”: like Jessica Alba, who lost all her baby weight in a few months and admitted to eating 1200 calories a day and working out 2+ hours seven days a week. Tween shows teach girls that being pretty and famous is the best path to follow (“Hannah Montana”). Even pre-school girls are shown parading around in bikinis and spray tans in “Toddlers and Tiaras”.

And let’s get down to it: it’s men. Men of all ages crane their necks at nubile teen girls. The “Barely Legal” category of adult entertainment is always most popular.

I don’t think it’s ALL men. I always hear about the guys who went to the “Take Back the Night” anti-rape rallies in college, who sympathized with women over being “objectified”. You know, the guys Ayelet Waldman is always talking about. I have never met a guy like that in my life, but I THINK they exist. Probably across the bridge in that very liberal famous college town? Slowmamma, can you confirm or deny?

Anyway, I want my son to be a guy like that.

What can we do about society’s obsession with beauty? Is it possible to sidestep it?

I’m Syndicated on BlogHer Today!

I am so incredibly proud that today my “Rashomon: The Ill-Fated Blogger Sleepover” post has been syndicated on BlogHer! It’s currently even on the front page. Check it out, here. I can only think of a few things in my life that I have felt more excited about.

Friends, I would seriously love and appreciate any commenting on the BlogHer post or tweeting love you could provide for this.

Thank you, all!

That HIMYM Infertility Episode: Looking Into the Abyss

“As deep and poignant as the episode was, I guess there are some abysses you just have to look away from.”

Esse Quam Videri, poster on the AV Club discussion board

Monday afternoon, West Coast Time

A blizzard of tweets began to fly from my ALI twitter friends about something that was afoot on “How I Met Your Mother”. HIMYM is a show I watch religiously, in order: I have seen every single episode sequentially until this current season. Because like a dolt, I forgot to DVR my season pass and I want to watch it with Darcy, not online (it’s a rare show we both love), so I had consigned myself to catch it when the DVDs came out. I take a stubborn pride in watching all my favorite shows in order.

The reaction was pretty phenomenal, though, about HIMYM. I haven’t seen such a stir since PETA’s vasectomy campaign.

Wow. HIMYM really brought it. CC @jasonsegel @actuallyNPH—
Becca M (@LiberalGranola) December 06, 2011

@the2weekwait I feel like I need a drink, a pound of chocolate and comfort food now.—
Becca M (@LiberalGranola) December 06, 2011

@2manyfish2fry I ended up watching it last night and then cried and cried until I fell asleep. Just when I think I'm doing better…—
kate (@kateanon) December 06, 2011

@the2weekwait @2manyfish2fry @missohkay I am seriously thinking of writing a letter to the writers to thank them.—
Becca M (@LiberalGranola) December 06, 2011

Well, I had to watch it now.

So I did. Holy crap on a stick. !SPOILERS!

The show begins with a twist: the conceit of the series is that Ted Mosby is telling his two children in 2030 the story of how he met their mother. Almost every program starts with Bob Saget (as the voice of the older Ted) saying something like, “Kids, you know I spent a lot of time in bars,” or “I did a lot of stupid things in my day.” Or “Kids, did I tell you about the time I got a butterfly tramp stamp?” Ted tells a lot of inappropriate stories to his teenage children. But this episode shows a different boy and girl than Ted’s usually pictured duo and Robin is doing the voiceover to HER future children. As the show progresses, Robin tells the story of how she thinks she’s pregnant, finds out she’s not pregnant, is very happy not to be pregnant (“Sorry kids!”) then her OBGyn calls to tell her (in blurred specifics we can’t hear) that she will be unable to have children, ever.

Robin, who has long proclaimed that her career is more important than her than having children, is absolutely devastated by this diagnosis. I assumed this meant that she would eventually figure out a way to have children or adopt, but as Robin sits on a park bench in solitude in present day, coming to terms with her infertile status, she starts speaking to her raven-haired girl and Neil Patrick Harris doppelganger. (He’s supposed to be their father, according to Robin.) Here’s the full speech:

“So kids, I settled in for a Christmas alone. I appreciated that Ted wanted to cheer me up. But honestly, it wasn’t necessary. So I can’t have kids. Big deal. This way there’s no one to hold me back in life. No one to keep me from traveling where I want to travel, no one getting in the way of my career. If you want to know the truth of it, I’m glad you guys aren’t real.” Cut to Robin’s children, who fade off the screen like ghosts, clearing the way for a shot of Robin sitting on that park bench alone, while it snows.

“Really glad,” says Robin who looks utterly bereft.

(The actress who plays Robin, Cobie Smulders, did a pitch-perfect job in this entire episode)

The show wraps up by Ted saying that Robin turned out to be many things, but she was never a “pole-vaulter”. (“Pole-Vaulter” is the show’s euphemism for being a mother.) But one thing Ted says she never was: alone.

I’ll admit that I started sobbing when her children receded slowly away the frame. I’ve been on two message boards (EW and AV Video Club) and most commenters (male and female) said they felt “kicked in the gut”, “devastated”, “sad”. Some reported their own troubles conceiving and received positive, encouraging comments (and not one of those comments said “Just Relax” or “Just Adopt” either) and some were just angry that the writers could DO this to Robin.

What I think this episode did is frame infertility for those not in the know. Robin is a beloved character, a friend almost to people, and to see her diagnosis, her reaction, and her goodbye to the dream of children was heartbreaking. I have to hope that some empathy was gained.

On the other hand: the abyss. When I was going through infertility, if I had seen that episode in the middle of the my treatments, I would have been very disturbed. Robin’s Abyss: the hole in her life where we know no children will be was visible. That empty, sad park bench haunted my nightmares last night. I know that my worst waking nightmare was that I would have to face that abyss. So I definitely sympathize with Starfish Kitty Dreams about her reaction.

What do you think of this episode? Educational and full of heart? Too difficult to watch?

Time Warp Tuesday: To Publish or Not to Publish?

I wanted to quickly mention SPOILER ALERT! that the “How I Met Your Mother” episode tonight (which I broke my rule of never watching a show out of sequence for) absolutely broke my heart. I already loved that show, because I feel it portrays so well the allure of the white picket fence and Frank Capra way of life and contrasts it with the road less traveled. But this episode depicted a brilliant, sad, bleak but true tale of infertility. I think someone on the writing staff must be in the know.

OK: on to this week’s Time Warp Tuesday post! I actually suggested the topic this week and am THRILLED that our brilliant and thoughtful hostess Kathy chose it. From Kathy’s description:

As Bloggers we often share openly and candidly about our lives, experiences, hopes and fears. As a result, sometimes we may have second thoughts about publishing some of our blog entries. Choose a post from your archives that you were most afraid to publish. Then write a new post on your blog about why you chose the post that you did and what has happened in your life since.

I had one post in mind when I proposed this topic. It’s this one, where I revealed my real identity to show support for the courageous bloggers who opposed a ridiculous and hurtful Facebook meme. The incident is worth revisiting, because the negative reactions they received are at the heart of what we fight in our battle for public awareness of infertility.

It’s a pretty ballsy post, I must say, as I reread it. I call someone out for a mean comment and put my face and name out there. I don’t think I would have done this if:

A) I hadn’t reread “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” the night before. JK Rowling is a hero to me, mainly because she instills in her readers a good sense of what courage is and why we should stand up for those who are being bullied and worse. I think she teaches us that we need to fight for the good and the kind and those in need. And that is NEVER easy, but if you look at history, those who ignore or appease or join in evil are everywhere. That’s a simplistic explanation of course. But that doesn’t make it untrue.

The mean things people say to our faces and in comments online about infertility are acts of aggression. Amy Haible’s comments are ignorant (clearly she knows NOTHING about the adoption process!) and are meant to injure those who read them. To put such thoughts out there to the world at large is something Lord Voldemort would do. And, to AGREE with such statements is ALSO terrible. Is it as evil as committing genocide? No, obviously not. But infertility silences its victims. So many are unable to stand up for themselves, because of depression (which infertility causes: yes, causes), because of shame, guilt, taboos in society. I was afraid to speak up, too. No one wants to be told “Just adopt. It’s because of you orphans are starving.” Or “Natural Selection is why you’re infertile.” Or myriad other pitiless things that are untrue and painful.

But I’ve crossed the finish line. I have children. I am LUCKY. So I thought, bring it on. I can probably handle it better than those who are in the middle of the battle. When I was in the middle of the battle, I was often unable to socialize at all, let alone defend myself from “bon mots” about how God meant for me to be barren.

I was lucky, again. I received 41 comments on that post and they were all supportive. But I know one day I’ll get a nasty response.

But dammit if I’m not going to fight the mean comments for all those who can’t.

B) I thought the wonderful bloggers who took a stand against the BS to begin with needed to be told that their efforts mattered, that solidarity needed to be shown. Putting my face out there seemed to be the best way to do that. Elphaba, Mel and Keiko deserve many, many kudos for their eloquent, brave posts.

Looking back on the post now I feel a little wary, still, that I can be googled so easily. Future employers can read all about my infertility advocacy: that may limit me in some way at some time. I was pretty open about my infertility to friends and family, but my twins may suffer some fallout. Kids are the biggest bullies of all, as we all know. There were some BIG considerations at play when I revealed my identity.

But in the end, life is short. I believe that infertility awareness is where breast cancer awareness was twenty years ago. I think that hearts and minds, maybe, can be changed. Not in people who have poisonous marrow and bitterness growing in their souls and feel the need to lash out at others. But I don’t think most people are like that. I guess I believe in the good of most people.

I’ll conclude with another Dumbledore quote.

It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.

And so, I’m glad I chose to publish this post.

The Lost Art of Having Fun

Our Declaration of Independence proclaims that we are all free to pursue “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. In our workaholic culture, the pursuit of happiness is often equated to acquiring things or taking fancy trips or having a family or keeping up with the jones. At least, that’s what I envision that phrase to mean. And when I set out to write about living joyfully, (how American it is for me to diligently work hard at and document my efforts to be happy) I didn’t think much about one thing that has always made me happy, yet something I rarely do: have fun.

I have always enjoyed my birthdays. Because, as I mentioned, they are the one day a year when I get to do whatever I want. So much about being a parent involves chores. You can find joy in the everyday, but it takes work and doesn’t come naturally to me. (Although I continue to try.) I enjoy many things related to my children and there are truly happy moments, but so much of parenthood is about sacrifice and sublimation. It’s easy to become a drone.

So yesterday, I played with friends and my husband and freed myself from the heavy mantle of responsibility for 12 hours. I wish all of you could have been there, because it was FUN! I realized I have not had fun in many, many years. And afterward I happily returned to my family life as a mother, rejuvenated and with memories of shenanigans and laughs.

What’s fun is creating stories and memories with people. In college, my friends and I would write down on a white board funny things people would say, or a two-word description of something that would prompt a hilarious memory. Eg: Recycled Salsa. Which referred to my horror when I realized that the restaurant I worked at had an enormous cauldron where you were required to dump the uneaten salsa from diners’ tables. That cauldron was also where you would ladle “new salsa” from. Ew.

So here’s my white board which I will share with you. (Because you are all my friends! Let’s share a funny story.) And I humbly submit: Stumbling Gracefully’s “Karate Power”. Bodega Bliss, Stumbling Gracefully and I attended a music festival. This happened:

And this:

Photos courtesy of and copyrighted by Stumbling Gracefully.

Darcy was picking me up from the music festival so the three amigos went outside to wait for him. Right in front of the building was a parking spot!! This is San Francisco, so action needed to be taken. Esperanza stood in the street between the two cars, arms akimbo, and she made herself as physically imposing as possible. But, she had a competitor for the empty piece of cement. A guy claimed he had been waiting for the spot before we even got there. So Esperanza challenged him to a duel for it. The bargain was he would run circles around her while she did that “crane” move from “Karate Kid”. The first one to falter lost. I don’t know how they came up with that, either. So Esperanza’s doing a million of these moves:

While the guy literally ran laps around her. Eventually he claimed he was “winded” and cried uncle. Bodega and I laughed our asses off.

Esperanza FTW. Wax on, wax off.

No, I didn’t have the wisdom to tape it. I really, really wish I had.

You know what else was fun? Eating this Banana Cream Pie (My Favorite Pie Ever)!! Bodega Bliss is a better baker than anyone I know.

SO let’s make this a communal White Board. Please tell me a fun story that has happened to you, either recently or way back. I would love for us all to remember and share some fun.

And no, I have not forgotten my promise to share the worst exercise story of all time. I’m just not ready yet….

Happy Birthday to Meeeee!!!!

I love birthdays. Even if they mean I’m getting old. It’s a day when I get special treatment and free reign to pursue fun times with my friends and Darcy. It’s all about ME!!! It’s never about me, so I’m grateful for this day.

The problem with birthdays are the days after. No special me time, just the fact that I’m freaking 39. A year older, a year closer to being completely done building a family and a year closer to 40.

But for now, to heck with that. I am going to let you know what I am particularly thankful for on Birthday Eve. (Yes, it’s a thing!)

1) Parks & Recreation

This show. I love it way too much and have been quoting it to friends and family who have no idea what I’m talking about. (“Dude, you have to END on the rhyme!”) I’ve sent numerous texts with quotes from Tom Haverford, Leslie Knope, Jean Rolphio and Andy to poor Esperanza, who also watches it. It is the funniest show on TV right now. Don’t believe me? Here’s a clip. The set-up: Tom Haverford (a small-town Jay-Z wannabe) launches his own liquor called Snake Juice at his nightclub, The Snake Hole. You read that right. The rag-tag band of government employees the show follows goes to the club to support him and his “Connoisseur’s Juice” and promptly get trashed. It’s really funny if you know the characters, who are usually pretty straight-laced.

In fact the whole episode, called “The Fight” is one of the funniest pieces of TV I’ve ever seen.

2. Neutral Milk Hotel. Hat tip to Parks and Recreation on this one, too. I had never heard of April’s favorite all-time band until watching this show. This song, which came out in 1998(!) in particular I love:

3. A&W Root Beer Floats. Enough said.

Do you like your birthdays? Do you have birthday “hangovers”?

Will There EVER Be Any Money in Blogging?

Mel has an interesting post today about how bloggers should value their clout (not Klout ) as writers and refuse to accept non-paying assignments. On the heels of that, Uppercase Woman published her take on why women bloggers matter, urging people not to quit writing. Her point was if you even have a small following of readers, you can change people’s lives. But she acknowledges that the monetary rewards are not great for the vast majority of bloggers.

My father, it appears, lived in a golden age of the writing profession. He worked for a big city newspaper for 28 years, and supported his family on that income. He got to pursue his great talent and passion for writing, won awards, rubbed elbows with the biggest newsmakers of the day and from his position was able to publish four fiction books with big publishing houses. He had many, many colleagues who pursued the same path.

This path is drying up. I’ve done a bunch of research on the blogging industry and ad networks and the depressing truth seems to be this:

Very, very few bloggers (maybe 50 in the world) are able to earn a good living from their projects. The way most ad networks are run now and the traffic numbers brands demand to pay bloggers are not in favor of actually funding writers. (For example, in order to get paid $25,000 a year in ad sales, I’d have to get at least 25,000 page views a day. I don’t have anywhere near that kind of traffic.) Print media is declining, firing writers, the publishing industry is imploding. So I wonder if the profession of writing is a endangered profession to all but a few, huge, popular bloggers? And the surviving old media guard?

I’d love to be wrong on this. And if I’m right, how can we change it? Or is this the paradigm of the future?

Darcy always tells me that my blogging should just be a hobby, an advocacy project to help others, a support group to help me and my ALI friends. If I have gained nothing but the friends I have encountered through blogging, my life is very rich indeed.

What do you think? Do you have a blog which provides you with a comfortable living? Do you think this is a reasonable goal? Or should we just be happy to be here?

Take 2: Never Take Me To An Exercise Class, Ever, NO I MEAN SERIOUSLY EVER!

Colours of Cattiz was doubtful there could be a worse exercise class than the one described yesterday. (Short version: I knocked a stationary bicycle onto my leg in the middle of a Spin class.) I’ll let you be the judge of whether the next experience is worse. In my mind, it is. But everything is relevant. The third and LAST ever class is so embarrassing that I don’t even know if I can post it. Y’all, it is seriously that bad. I don’t think anyone has ever humiliated themselves more. Ever. In the history of the UNIVERSE.

As you can imagine, the Spin fiasco became legendary around the office. Lisa would tell the tale to an incredulous audience, gasping for breath from too much laughing. Later she would add the punchline: “And she had a bruise the size of a MUFFIN on her leg for three months!” Soon I was approached by many co-workers to attend many different activities with them: rock-wall climbing, Hip Hop Funk (NO), Salsa dancing. This went on for over a year. I think they all wanted a spectacular Jjiraffe story. I said no way to all and sundry.

Until Darcy and I met and settled into domestic bliss. In other words, we started cooking and eating a lot. I put on a few pounds and my jogging routine was curtailed so I had more time to shop at the grocery store, where I bought things like capers and spaghetti and Bibolis and all sorts of fattening love foods. So when my colleague Elizabeth approached me about a new class, I was vulnerable. This time, though, I would go in prepared. I peppered her with many questions: was this a beginner class? Could the least athletic person in the world get through this class? Was there heavy machinery that I could knock over onto my leg? The answers to all these questions were satisfactory.

Elizabeth thus brought me into class number two: Introduction to Kickboxing. I can hear you groaning: of all the classes, Jjiraffe, why THAT? I can see you thinking of all the possible scenarios in which I could wreak havoc on myself: I could get kicked in the head, I could knock down a punching bag. And I had thought of those scenarios myself and solutions to avoid them. I would hit the punching bag really lightly. I would have super aware senses to protect me from others’ flying limbs.

I was a little intimidated when the instructor, who looked Taye Diggs, if Taye Diggs had been an Army Ranger for 10 years, introduced himself. This time though, I wouldn’t pretend like I knew what I was doing. I raised my hand and said: “I’ve never been to a kickboxing class before!”

Turns out, that was a big mistake.

Taye was very intrigued by my green status. He wanted to teach someone completely fresh to the subject, in hopes that they would develop excellent form and be a kickass kickboxer. It became clear right away, though, that kickboxing was NOT the sport for me. What HAD intrigued me about it was that you use your legs a lot. I have a lot of lower body strength, like most women. In terms of my upper body strength, I think I am in the bottom 1% of everyone in the world. I have narrow shoulders, small bones and limited endurance. Turns out, that particular kickboxing class was 80% arm punches and 20% leg kicks.

Taye, in his efforts to mold me, pretty much left his class to itself. (“Partner UP, everyone! Practice your uppercuts now! Now, roundhouse kicks!” I was Taye’s partner, up front and center.) Which meant everyone was paying attention to my every kick, punch and jab, all of which were terrible, even the kicks. I could tell Taye was getting frustrated, but his method to try to improve my uppercuts was to increase the frequency and repetition of them. “Aim HERE! Punch THERE!” he kept yelling. Always the people pleaser, I tried to keep up the best I could.

Ten minutes in, the exertion was starting to take its toll on my gentle body. Have you ever run really fast, so fast you thought your insides might come out of your body, starting with your lungs? That’s what I felt like. Then, suddenly, bile started to rise. I realized I was going to hurl: I had the watery jowls. How could I make my escape in the midst of performing for the whole class and strict drill sargent Taye? I tried to say excuse me, but had to put my hand over my mouth to prevent the vomiting. I ran out of the room as fast as I could and made it to the trash can outside the hall, whereupon I heaved my guts out. Unfortunately, the trashcan was clearly visible to the kickboxing room. I looked up to see every single person in the class staring at me in horror. Including Mr. Diggs. So I did what brave Sir Robin would do. I bravely ran away.

Then I made a horrible realization: my bag with my wallet and keys was back inside the kickboxing room! I was going to have to go back in there and subject myself to total humiliation to get it. I couldn’t do it. So I trudged down the hall to the front desk (because of course my cell phone was in the bag) and asked them if I could make a local call. Luckily they relented.

I called Darcy and begged him to come help me. Fortunately, it was early in our relationship when he would do pretty much anything for me. (Behold the power of Biboli pizzas!) He boldly marched up there, grabbed my purse and waved at Elizabeth, cheekily. I will never forget that.

Monday, the office eagerly waited for an update from Elizabeth. They were not disappointed.

Seriously, I don’t know if I can post Class #3. Are these cheering you up and making you laugh? Are they making your morning a little brighter? If the answer is yes from enough readers, I GUESS I’ll man up and post it. But it is seriously mortifying. There are times when I remember it randomly and cringe. Still. Ten years later!

Never Take Me To An Exercise Class, Ever, NO I MEAN SERIOUSLY NEVER EVER!: Take One

Many, many well-intentioned people I know urge me to take exercise classes. “Jjiraffe, take a Spin Class!” they’ll proclaim. “You’ll burn a lot of calories!” Or “Tae Kwon Do will make you feel your strength as a WOMAN, Jjiraffe!” someone will rave. Or, “Yoga will change your life, Jjiraffe. For real.” Or I’ll read a post like this, about the amazing power of emotional clarity that the right workout can provide. Aaaand, I’ll be tempted. REAL tempted.

Then I remember that I’m me. And every exercise class I have ever taken has ended in dramatic, flameout, Borat-style dysfunctional disaster. (Remember when he destroyed that antique store?) People still dine out, years later, on just ONE tale of my three attempts to exercise in a group setting with others. You may think I’m being dramatic. I’m building this up too much. There was that time you tripped during your Flash mob routine of Cee-lo’s “Forget You.” That was embarrassing, right?

Not even. Here’s a taster of humiliation.

Borat asks: You think I can glue this back together?

Foreshadowing, people.

The year: 1997. The setting: Spin Class, Gorilla Sports, San Francisco
The characters: My friend from work, Lisa, and myself. And 50 Spin Class (mostly male) fanatics.

Lisa was my first friend to talk me into an exercise class. (But unfortunately not the last.) I preferred running or working on a treadmill (for no particular reason other than a TOTALLY PSYCHIC Premonition subconsciously keeping me AWAY, the FUCK away from classes) but her description of burning more than 600 calories in a session was really tempting. I asked her if I needed any special skills. “Have you ever ridden a bike?” she asked. Well, duh. Of course I had. I mean, not really since I was in junior high with a three-speed Schwinn, but whatever! Once you’ve ridden a bike, you’ll always know how to ride a bike?

We were a little late to the class so the only two bikes open were in the front of the whole group. I wasn’t keen on a bunch of guys staring at my ass, but I had no choice but to trot up there and awkwardly straddle the bulky stationary bike as everyone watched. My initial hesitation turned into outright panic when the Teutonic instructor barked out “Has anyone not taken this class before?” and no one raised their hand. I wasn’t going to single myself out and encourage even more attention to all those behind my hindquarters. Well, that Schwinn was not too hard to maneuver, right? RIGHT?!

Cue the intensely loud techno music which made it difficult to understand Frau Instructor’s commands. Which were many, and complicated. A lot of gear shifts were talked about. Shifting to lower gears to go uphill or shifting to higher gears to go downhill. I was unsure how to downshift up or down. I’m sure it wasn’t rocket science, but I was becoming increasingly flustered.

Uta’s commands became more intense as she led us on a virtual tour of the Alps. We were climbing a steep precipice on our very own Tour de France (which, ambitious much?) so I shifted to the lower gears, pedaling slowly, my butt in the air. (The last place I wanted it to be.) Then suddenly Frau spotted a sharp drop-off: “Shift higher, pedal faster. FASTER!!!” Jolted by the order, I pedaled really fast, but missed the part about shifting into higher gears.

You can imagine the physics behind my dumb move: The pedals had no resistance but I was pedaling them fast so I soon lost control. No big deal, you say. You can’t lose much control on a stationary bike.

Oh, my friend. You are wrong.

My foot lost its traction on the pedal, but my heel got caught on a strap. (Which I probably should have asked how to secure properly.) In an effort to shake it loose while still pedaling madly on the other side, I stomped my left foot, thus compromising the entire structure. The bike came loose from its underpinnings and in slow terrible motion fell to the left. I collapsed in a heap, with a terrific crash, the bike on top of my left leg and when it landed I was parallel to the floor, still straddling the thing.

The music and class actually stopped while the instructor and my friend struggled to get the bike off my left leg, which hurt a bit, but not as much as my humiliation. People were starting to stiffle their giggles. I mean, who falls off a stationary bike?! If I had been worried about people staring at my butt, well, I had much bigger fish to fry now. My face turned the color of a 49ers sweatshirt. My friend Lisa was initially worried I had injured myself, but the truth was I had injured my pride. And apparently a stationary bike.

She told me later after a few margaritas that nothing like that had EVER happened in the six months she had taken the class. Well, of course not.

My only war wound was a hideous bruise the size of a muffin on my left knee and thigh. Of course summer was about to begin, of course I was single, of course the bruise was totally ugly and of course the bruise lasted until fall, when I had already packed away my shorts and short skirts.

Not my actual bruise, but pretty similar.

Have you ever performed an epic fail during an exercise class?

Are you strong enough to hear my next tale? It makes the stationary bike disaster look like small potatoes…

Living Joyfully: Remember That?!

It’s hard to me to remember, but I proclaimed 2011 my year of living joyfully. I was going to study philosophy, and try to understand how to appreciate life more, be happier, more resilient.

One of the hardest things in the world has to be rebounding from challenges and tragedies with our soul intact. Humankind has had to do this from its inception. Do you think our ancestors, whose life expectancy was 30, who watched their family and friends get eaten by wolves or whatever, or starve, or suffer from horrible diseases, weren’t terribly depressed?! I think about the horrors my husband’s family endured during the Holocaust, or my great-great grandfather who fled Ireland during the Potato Famine. The Flu of 1917 (Hey, it killed Edward Cullen, too!), WWI, WWII, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Rwanda, etc, etc, etc, etc.

In the infertility community, we all know about people who haven’t gotten the call. But what about the people who have gotten the call, but adjust to challenges and tragedies relatively well? Who are well-functioning, cheery, happy-seeming people? How in the world do they DO it?

I had a little glimmer of good news today. The bulls-eye on my back blurred a bit. I am driving this ridiculous tank of a car while my station wagon gets fixed. Every time I see it, I laugh. It’s a Nitro and looks like the official vehicle of the American Wrestling Association. It could not be less like my polite, safe Volvo. Yet, it’s fun to try on this identity. Instead of listening to NPR like usual and its usually downbeat programming about the Euro Debt crisis, my stereo is programmed to hip hop stations.

“You and I” came on and brought me back to when I was 16, and went to a Halloween party where a Rick James CD was on a heavy rotation. Our homecoming queen had celebrated her victory a little harder than necessary and she started puking. It was so scandalous. And my best friend and I mingled in our black cat costumes, the strict caste system of high school broken with the humbling of our queen. We danced altogether: the cheerleaders, goody-goodies, the drama people, the athletes, the nerds. And it was glorious. Turns out, Rick James is a great equalizer.

Listening to Rick James today reminded me of an interview with the great writer Laura Hillenbrand. Hillenbrand’s first book was the astonishingly good “Seabiscuit: An American Legend”. She was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Disease in her early 20s. Chronic Fatigue sounds vague, but some pathologists now think it might be a form of leukemia. It was devastating for Hillenbrand. She had tortuous episodes of vertigo and had to give up any hope of having a family. What she did instead was spend any “good” time researching and writing her first masterpiece. Once completed, she went into a tailspin of vertigo so severe that she couldn’t move. She published an account of her illness in the first person in The New Yorker that was terrifying: at one moment you are a brilliant, beautiful student at Kenyon College, the next you are completely incapacitated.

In a recent interview with the Washington Post, she said something that haunted me.

“Laura Hillenbrand, in her Washington home, says she copes with her illness by detaching herself completely from aspirations. ‘I hardly ever listen to music anymore because it arouses all of this yearning in me,’ she says.”

How incredibly sad is that?

See: yearning. I think yearning may be a key ingredient in keeping us alive and seeking joy. I don’t have a lot of yearnings, per se, but listening to “You And I” brought back a good time in my life and made me want to dance. That CAN’T be bad. No matter the pains, the accidents, the illnesses, the boredom. There is, within us, yearning to be happy, whether it’s by eating a treat or dancing or singing, or watching a good movie, or riding a horse. Some of those are within our reach.

My greatest yearning now is to finish my own book! and help others get published.

What are some yearnings, little or small that you feel, beyond reproductive plans or parenting?

The Pomegranate Society, Take Two

Remember a million years ago when I proposed a writing group for those in the ALI community focused on getting books published? Yeah, that. Sorry it has taken me so long to get all my ducks lined up in a row, but I think, after long contemplation and research and just plain old reading, that I have figured out a way to do it that will a) make sense for our writers b) not kick our collective butt but c) get us to move forward.

A quick refresher:

It’s not talked about much, but many of our best female writers are suspected to be fellow infertiles. From Isaak Dinesen to George Eliot, Dorothy Parker to Mary Shelley, who we know had a life-threatening miscarriage and lost her son at the age of three: these great writers were “our people”. They were able to create sustaining works of literature and channel pain into their art.

All you have to do is look through the roster of ALI bloggers to realize that we have some serious talent among us. There’s Mel (the bestselling author!) and Keiko has a novel in the works.

These projects are documented. But I suspect there are many others of us who have a few chapters of a thriller or graphic novel, a book of poetry, a children’s book. A cookbook.

I need a greater push into the arena of publishing, and I think others would too.

What if we were to begin a virtual workshop where we critiqued and helped other writers refine their projects into what they are after? I’m happy to play facilitator and match up groups. I’d love it if by the end of the year we could get at least a few finished work with contracts signed.

The more books by the ALI community, the greater the message gets out. Plus, a nice boost of accomplishment for us all wouldn’t go amiss.

A number of really talented bloggers were interested, but I proposed a punishing schedule that was going to be difficult for many to maintain.

So here’s what I’m thinking now:

I think The Pomegranate Society should have three parts.

1. I still think the best way to get people writing is to pair a blogger with a fellow writer working on a similar project. But this time, I want to do just that: pair you together. Together, you two can create your own timetable. Whether it’s a chapter a week, a proposal review, an outline, advice, etc. I would leave it up to the two of you to set the parameters. I will have, of course, suggestions

2. I would host either weekly or bi-weekly interviews with a writer or publisher or agent or self-publishing expert who can advise us all on the best ways to get published. I would solicit questions from all of my readers, and anyone can visit and be educated.

3. In June, I would host a private, virtual group critique session for those writers paired who are interested in getting a lot of feedback from our other writers and, hopefully, a special guest.

I think this is manageable and workable and we could all learn a lot this way.

So, what say you? I will contact privately those of you already interested.

Enjoying Your Pregnancy! No, Seriously

No, no, I am not pregnant. But a number of my friends I follow are.

Esperanza pointed out the strange feelings that following pregnant IF bloggers can cause. Esperanza has one child, I have two. She’s in a different place than me. For me, pregnancy blogs sometimes make me feel guilty.

Why’s that?

Well, for starters my pregnancy was full of fear and strange medical terms like “hypermesis”, “round ligament pain” and “irritable uterus”. I had gone through three IVF attempts, one loss. A twins pregnancy is a scary “high-risk” pregnancy, even if you haven’t gone through infertility and loss.

I spent the first six months trying to find food that wouldn’t make me puke my guts out. I could not enter restaurants, even go outside sometimes. Food could not be prepared in my apartment. There are certain streets in San Francisco that I could point out where I vomited, multiple times, due to the smell of cigarettes or, I don’t know, chicken being cooked five blocks away. I spent a lot of time in bed. I went on leave. I was threatened with hospitalization a few times, thankfully never having to spend a night there.

I never had on makeup and rarely took a shower (I puked a lot in there, OK! TMI?). I am proud to say I read “Swann’s Way”, which was so difficult to understand that it kept my mind deliciously occupied, as if I was engaged in a puzzle. I am not so proud to say I watched all of “The Hills”, Season 2. Oh, Lauren. Girl, we SO needed to talk in 2007.

AT 28 weeks, I had my babies’ shower. It was a beautiful, stunning party put on in an art-filled mansion by one of my MIL’s friends. I remember feeling like a deer in the headlights. There is only one photo of the event, and it is not of my “Bump”.

In fact, I only have one photo of me “bumping out”, as EOnline is calling pregnancy now, as if it were a simple fashion trend some celebrities have decided to try on for size. I don’t know when it was taken. My parents had sent me a fun top to wear, and Darcy insisted on a photo of me in it. I am so, so glad he did.

At 31 weeks, I had to go to the ER for premature contractions. Luckily a drug was able to stop them. At 33 weeks, I had to go back. They were stopped again. During that time, I tried not to be scared out of my gourd. I spent a lot of time watching tremendously bad reality TV shows, all from Bravo and MTV. I was prescribed official bedrest.

Finally at 35 weeks my OBGyn, who was an amazing, stress-free, breezy lady who always made me feel calm, breathed and said I should enjoy my life now, quick, before I was a mother. That last week was fun. I was able to eat in one restaurant where my girth freaked the heck out of our hostess, who made sure we knew we were seated VERY close to the exit. Hee!

All this is to say, I look back and am sorry I DIDN’T document my pregnancy with more photos. I wish I had OWNED my pregnancy more, instead of feeling like a ginormous fraud. I wish I had allowed more people to fuss over me.

So preggo bloggers: keep on documenting. Show your bump at all the stages. Buy pretty maternity clothes. Let family and friends spoil you a little or a lot. And tell us about it! You deserve to enjoy this. You have earned it. Don’t let fear rule.

Because soon, this will be you.

Did you enjoy your pregnancy? Are you enjoying your pregnancy now?

Things I Learned From Really Bad Reality Television

I had no Internet access for seven days. Seven days, people! I had my iPhone, and that was it. Instead of reading good books, I watched a lot of bad TV. Here are seven lessons I learned for each day I was without the world wide web.

1. From Animal Planet’s The Haunted: If you are stressed out, don’t, under any circumstances, meditate. Because it’s likely that an evil satan-worshipping dead relative WILL invade your home, haunt you AND your dogs. ESPECIALLY your dogs.
2. Also from Animal Planet’s The Haunted: Don’t investigate the paranormal, if you are a man. You may be stalked by an evil, beautiful Succubus trying to suck out your, er, lifeforce. Also, your dog won’t like you anymore.
3. From My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding: Where to even BEGIN! This show was so incredibly FUBAR that my jaw was often on my couch. First off, if you’re a woman, you have NO rights, except to throw incredibly expensive, lavish, gaudy weddings. Then you go live in a trailer for the rest of your life. Depressing.
4. From Paranormal Witness: Yes, you may be noticing a trend here. I am somewhat obsessed by paranormal shows. This is the scariest show of this genre I have EVER seen. If you have an opportunity to buy a massive, enormous home in Connecticut for almost nothing, please, please check property records. Your property might have actually been the site of the most terrible insane asylum, ever. Shudder.
5. From House Hunters: If you live anywhere EXCEPT the Bay Area, Hawaii, NYC, LA and Boston, you have every right to expect to buy a 5 bedroom house with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, a massive backyard and heated bathroom floors. You’ll get it within your budget of $250k, no problem. The rest of us? SUCK IT!!
6. From The Rachel Zoe Project: Your pregnancy will never, ever show. Even if you are nine months along. Also, you’ll be a size zero again directly after birth. Ugh.
7. From Home By Novogratz: Jjiraffe will covet your chic, effortless, boho lifestyle and your extreme fertility. How does someone have seven kids, live in a FABULOUS home in Manhattan, have a fun design company with their husband and somehow is so likable that I’m not even mad at her? Courtney Novogratz rules.

What have YOU learned from bad TV?

When You Are At Fault

Something really terrible happened on Monday. I rear-ended a car and the driver was injured. This is the first accident I have ever been in as a driver in my 20+ years of driving. And it was my fault. It was at a notoriously blind intersection and I was temporarily blinded also by the sun, which was low and directly in my vision. But still. I took full liability to everyone (insurance company included), but I am very worried about the man I rear-ended. I keep asking our insurance adjuster to see if he’s OK. I want to track him down and send him flowers or something, but I only have his first name. I apologized a lot to him at the scene, but it doesn’t feel enough. I wish I could rewind the morning. Make it come undone.

I have been trying to do one good deed a week since September outside of helping my immediate family, always my number one priority. I feel like I was kind of on a roll. I have made meals for families, committed small, random acts of kindnesses (like always letting cars merge in front of me, giving to charity), sent gifts to those in need.

So then, this. This is the opposite of a good deed.

As someone going through infertility and loss, we are so often the victims of circumstances. But here I am not a victim.

Dear readers. You have always helped me before. How do I move past this? How do I make amends to this nice man, who did nothing to warrant this awful accident? How do I forgive myself? Have you ever been involved in a situation where you were to blame?

Tuesday Time Warp: Bloggy Meet-ups

Kathy each week hosts a project that us writerly types love: a chance to revisit a past post and update it with learnings since then. It’s called Tuesday Time Warp, and I love it. It’s beginning to feel like a tradition my group of friends once had: the “Tuesday Night Supper Club”. We’d meet up in some mid-priced London restaurant and talk about everything: books, movies, politics, gossip and generally just have a blast. Many nights we’d leave the restaurant around 2 AM. Those were some of the best nights of my life.

My new Tuesday tradition though is to pull up a virtual barstool at Kathy’s kitchen island, with friends like Deborah and Esperanza and Keiko and Lori and get to read really enchanting, thought-provoking writing, then get their impressions after the post was published. Because I am always one of those nerds that wants to ask the great posters exactly what they meant by a certain turn of phrase, this event is especially magical.

This week’s topic is “Meet-Ups” (not virtual) and so there is The Gang of Three of us ALI bloggers who live nearby. They are the sisters I never had, friends who would have loved the “Tuesday Night Supper Club”. They don’t live the closest to me but close enough. They are soulmates to me. I can imagine us coming up with some dopey Ya Ya ritual someday. Nah, we’re too cool for that.

If I had my way, I’d have these sisters living on my street. We’d all prepare food together, bitch, moan and aid projects and dreams would most likely achieve liftoff.

But The Gang of Three had one night of misadventure, which, being the shameless bloggers we are, we each posted about. It was the Rashoman of an ill-fated sleepover. I love this blog hop, because everyone was very honest about their past friendship baggage and how it led to the imploded get-together.

So here’s three different accounts of the same event from three separate bloggers. Rashoman, minus a lot of unpleasantness of the original work.

My friendships with Bodega and Esperanza are the best thing to have happened to me in this somewhat cursed year, or the year where challenges are being hurled at me like the many Bludgers aimed at Harry Potter during that one rigged game. The latest Bludger, this morning, was the worst so far, by far.

The only highlight was Esperanza’s wickedly amusing, foul-mouthed tweets, which brought me back to life. The Gang of Three is by no means exclusionary: If I could meet Mel or Lori or Kym, or Kristin or Keiko or Justine or Kathy or Wordgirl or Dresden: to quote Rachel Zoe: “That would be so major. That would be everything.” Luna, I am tracking you down and we will be having lunch as soon as my car is fixed. Hope, I would love to get your unique, thorough take on Infertility, Elphaba would dazzle me with her acerbic wit, Mo would just make me laugh with bunnies, Marie would be writing her own unique memoir and I could see it, LutC: I know that you would make me laugh with your unconventional humor. This is just the tip of the iceberg: if your name’s not on here, it’s because I’m afraid of writing a cast of thousands.

Because I have never met so many of “my people”. And I hope some day to meet you all.

To learn more about “Tuesday Time Warp”, please go here.

The Allure and the Tyranny of the White Picket Fence

Our Internet connection has been down almost a full week. I know a lot of bloggers have written about the blessed relief of not blogging, of the exhaustion that writing or trying to write can lead to. That taking an electronic break is a sanity saver so they can (maybe) return, refreshed, rejuvenated. Read books again. Think complete thoughts uninterrupted by checking Twitter for the 20th time that day.

My friends, I am not that blogger. Every day, and many minutes of the day of this enforced “break” I ached to write. I tried to type posts in Word, I tried to tweet and comment on blogs on my ridiculous iPhone tiny screen with its insistent and incorrect auto-correct. (If you got an incomprehensible comment from me this week, now you know why.) None of this worked.

Instead of finishing “Remembrance of Things Past”, I passed hours when the kids napped or slept watching the dumbest TV you can imagine. I watched every single episode of “The Haunted” on Animal Planet. Which is about, er, the paranormal disturbing household pets. I mean, really. Does it GET more bottom of the barrel than that?

Not blogging was a stark reminder of how truly isolated I am. I am housebound as a result of life choices (being a SAHM). My only social interactions were with the other mothers of pre-schoolers twice a day. You (allegedly, maybe) park far, far away from the classroom, and endure the long walk, past cliques of moms either ignoring you or politely nodding. You know some are chilly because you don’t volunteer for the three email opportunities you receive daily (Help us Make Bread! Help us Make Napkins!), because you don’t have the time, because unlike almost all the other dads, your husband works 100 hours a week. That you don’t pay to have classrooms or fences named after your family because you don’t have the money, that unlike most of the Range Rover drivers, you can barely afford the pre-school at all. That you’re also not chatty enough, not adept enough at small talk.

Not blogging made me inhabit fully the life of a SAHM of two challenging, precocious children and their unceasing demands. Being present 24/7 was really, really difficult, something I know those going through infertility aren’t going to want to hear. I can hear you saying, shut up you ingrate! Which is certainly what I would have thought myself. But when your main interactions are either unceasing demands or confrontations, your brain starts to stultify. (Because being a good parent means saying “No”. A lot.) Only by watching stories about pets battling ghosts and poltergeists and demonic possessions could I escape, chomping on way too much leftover Halloween candy.

My whole life I feel I craved this life of a suburban home with two kids and a husband. I certainly busted my ass to be here. So why is it so hard sometimes to BE here?

Lately, as if they happened to another person, I have remembered the travels and adventures I used to experience, the delight I felt in discovering new music or buying an outfit or meeting a friend for dinner at a trendy restaurant, barely able to afford it but feeling so grown-up for ordering goat-cheese ravioli. The nightclub queues my friend and I used to get to brazenly cut because the doorman knew us. The girl who men would stare at when she crossed the street. The girl who would confidently stride into meetings and present powerpoints to important clients, win them over with her arguments.

That Girl would be horrified by the frumpy, “Haunted Animal” watching, Halloween candy-eating, frankly tragic woman I have become, bothered by having to walk down a hallway like some cowed junior high kid.

Virginia Woolf wrote, “Across the broad continent of a woman’s life falls the shadow of a sword.” Basically we can either choose a life of “correctness” of motherhood and wifehood (of course, assuming that we are lucky enough to have children) or we can choose to go to the other side of the sword, where “all is confusion. Nothing follows a regular course.”

Life on the picket fence side of the sword seems really harsh and difficult. I feel that mothers are being crushed by expectations, whether they are our own, perpetrated by Dr. Sears, other mothers, or life, that terrible trash compactor which eventually grinds us down through tragedies.

I wish I didn’t have to write or think so much about resilience, or trying to seek joy, or being the bamboo bending in the wind. Why can’t I be That Girl again? Is that possible after IF, after parenting after infertility?

Is this a bunch of BS whining? Am I a total bitch for even writing any of this? Is it possible to live a life of adventure and fun once you have chosen the white picket side of the fence? Or should I consign myself to the fate of Frumpster Grumpster?

New York Times: Please Cover the Other 99% of Infertility Patients

The New York Times wrote yet another article marginalizing those who are going through infertility. This, I am sure, will be a surprise to no one.

In this column for the Style section, Jenny Anderson points out, once again for the cheap seats in the back, that infuriating and factually irresponsible previous New York Times article about the “rise” in patients terminating one twin. The article had absolutely no evidence that this procedure was actually on the rise, but certainly insinuated that it was a trend.

For me, the most maddening part of the article was this quote:

Discussion about the genetics and ethics of managing multiples is on the rise. The Times recently explored the fascinating and complex issue of reductions — reducing triplets to twins or twins to a single baby — in this Sunday Magazine piece, which I could not put down. Studies like this reinvigorate the debate and reveal how fast technology is evolving.

You mean: discussion at YOUR paper about the genetics and ethics of managing multiples is on the rise. You know what’s NOT on the rise? Discussion in your paper about why INFERTILITY is on the rise, among women of ALL age groups and incomes and ethnicities.

I understand that the Style section tries to appeal to New Yorkers of the highest income brackets: they appeal to the top 1% (to borrow Occupy terminology) and assume that the rest of us yokels will be aspirational enough to read their coverage too. Fine. So why do many articles about infertility appear in the style section? Infertility is a disease.

Luckily, we have Redbook to balance out this crappy coverage. I really have to give Redbook lots of props for bravery for being the first publication (that I know of) to partner with Resolve and give a voice to the 7.3 million of Americans suffering with infertility. And the coverage was both factual and anecdotal and relatable.

If you haven’t bought this month’s Redbook already (and you really, really should), here are some highlights:

Indeed in a survey of couples having difficulty conceieving, conducted by the pharmaceutical company Merck, 61% of respondents hid their infertility from family and friends. Nearly half didn’t even tell their mothers.

This really surprised me. I had no idea so many people didn’t even tell their mothers!

Only seven states require insurers to cover at least part of infertility treatment. “It’s still beyond the means of most Americans,” says Alice Domar, Ph.D, executive director for the Domar Center for Mind/Body Health at Boston IVF. “We need to create a lot of noise to get more coverage.”

Word.

And, to answer the many, many comments on each article about infertility generated by each New York Times article about “just adopting”:

Why don’t you adopt? “It’s a wonderful option, but there’s a presumption that it should fall on the shoulders of infertile women,” says Keiko Zoll, 29, of Salem, MA. “When people ask, ‘Why don’t you adopt?’ I’m like, ‘Why don’t you?”

Keiko, you rule!

One last point to The New York Times: there are hundreds and hundreds of stories in the naked “cities” of the OBGyns’ offices you could cover. Instead of a millionairess going through her fifth egg donation at age fifty, you could write about about the “average experience”, which is usually filled with incredible heartache, loss and sometimes triumph. All you have to do is go here.

For my full documentation of The New York Times‘ articles on infertility, go here.

Tuesday Time Warp: Resolution

Each week, the lovely and talented Kathy hosts Tuesday Time Warps. Today’s Time Warp topic is resolution. The past post I chose was about searching for resolution in my 38th year: whether we would pursue a third child. Now I am almost 39 and am no closer to resolution than I was before.

My only serious option, were we to try for a third, is to heavily invest in Assisted Reproduction Technology, a branch of medicine which barely got me pregnant when I was 34, and my head ART chief noted that my ovaries were about as high functioning a machine as the Chevy Corvair. I can only imagine that my ovaries now are on a Ford Pinto performance trajectory at this point. Ping. KAPOW! (Top Secret, anyone? Anyone?)

This is all silly conjecture, except I feel after my last miscarriage that a child seems to be missing. I never thought I’d have three children. I’d be lucky with one, and now look at Ms. Greedy Guts with two children wanting three. With all of the environmental problems and economic chaos and lack of large financial funds and the high cost of living and the state of the world. You want three kids? I imagine all this is going through someone’s head. Not to mention all my infertility friends who are struggling with just wanting one. I feel so callous and unfeeling and uncaring to really pursue anything. So we haven’t. We’ve made, as Kathy puts it, a “soft no” decision.

I was mostly OK with it until I read this post by Chickenpig. Chickenpig is brave enough to not waffle: she feels in her heart that she has more children waiting for her. I admire her certainty.

Where does this lead me? I’m not sure.

Where are you on your journey? Are you “done”? Struggling to have one? In an ideal world where fertility was not an issue, how many children would you want?

Not-Penny’s Baby Shower

How do I explain how powerful Elphaba, my friend from the North, is? Let me start with an anecdote: recently it was announced that 75% of Ontarians support In-Vitro fertilization funding. I mentioned this to Darcy and told him: It’s because of Elphaba.

Elphaba’s hilarious, imaginative tart posts detailing the misery of infertility via, uh, untraditional methods (like her essay about the heartbreaking realization that the Vampire Sims she was controlling on her laptop were more fertile than her) were immediately a game changer in the world of infertility blogs, catapaulting her to blogger fame. Once she became pregnant, a situation she handled with utmost tact and thoughtfulness, she turned warrior. A stupid Facebook game was created to raise awareness for breast cancer by advocating that members announce pregnancy cravings (even when they were not pregnant). This “game” was incredibly hurtful to the many, many 1 in 8 couples going through infertility who had to scroll through these cruel announcements. Elphaba’s response was scathing and sane: “Pretending You’re Pregnant Isn’t Cute”. That post got 190 comments and was seen 11,000 times! So now you see why I think there is an Elphaba Effect in Canada. I think she captures hearts and changes minds.

That post allowed me to come out as an infertile myself in the post I’m most proud of, leading to the other Elphaba Effect: she often transforms meek, quiet citizens into warrior princesses, ready to take on Facebook Memes or critique really, really bad television movies about scary baby snatching plots.

Elphaba will be having a daughter, which seems incredibly fitting: I can only imagine the kind of shenanigans of social justice Elphie 2 will pursue, but if she’s not the feistiest baby girl in Canada, I’ll eat my Resolve shirt.

I will be giving to Elphie two things: the first is my own feisty daughter’s favorite dress. There are magical qualities associated with this dress. Yes, it’s cute and stylish and feminine without being foofy. But this dress commands respect, charisma and feistiness. I can’t imagine anyone except my daughter or Elphie’s daughter wearing it. Secondly, in case Elphie thinks this is weird, I will also be sending a gift certificate to Baby Gap, from whence this magical garment came from.

Finally, Elphaba, I am so thrilled and happy that we are all at this point with you: that I have “met” you, that you have taught me the value of standing up for what I believe in, that you are on that magical verge of becoming a mother. I know you will be an incredible mom, and I can’t wait to follow your journey into motherhood.

Fighting Wasps With Rubber Swatters

I often feel like I’m not living up to high enough standards as a mother. I get through each day, sometimes just barely making it to bedtime or Darcy’s nightly arrival. If he’s not traveling, which is increasingly the case.

But today I had a rare win, a victory when I knew I was being exactly the mother I needed to be. This victory was surprisingly literal.

Let me back up. Darcy allowed me a pretty much free day: I slept in and took a walk by myself. I took a bath. And finally finished “Schuyler’s Monster”, a book I’d been wanting to read since it came out in 2008 with lots of bloggy and print fanfare.

“Schuyler’s Monster”, written by Rob Rummel-Hudson, is an excruciatingly honest memoir of a father’s quest to first understand why his spunky, happy daughter Schuyler could not talk, the way he copes (sometimes poorly) with the eventual devastating diagnosis and the triumphant way he becomes a great advocate for her. It’s an ongoing story you can read about on his blog.

I really connected with his memoir mostly because he calls a spade a spade and refuses to sentimentalize his story. An excruciating “monster”, as he puts it, has always commanded part of his daughter’s brain and he explains how powerless he is to fight it and expel it.

“Special needs parents are fools, every one of us. We tilt at windmills and charge into battle with the monster, rubber swords drawn.”

I am lucky to have neurotypical children, but something in the memoir felt deeply familiar yet aspirational. The sense of failure that Rob expresses at being a parent, the fierce loyalty to his daughter, the continual championing against school administrators and teachers which eventually led to her being able to communicate is compelling and admirable. He’s an incredible parent, someone to look to in awe, but also someone human. I needed to hear from someone like this.

Today the twins and I went outside to eat a snack on our patio. It was a gorgeous autumnal day full of bucolic sights and sounds of scarlet and tan leaves slowly falling to the bluestone. We have had a wasp problem on the patio which has not let us enjoy our lovely space. Today I was determined I would provide my children with a wasp-free space: I would protect their enjoyment of the day from an attack of yellow jackets. I got a rubber guitar, a fly swatter I was amused by and purchased in Memphis (it has something to do with Elvis, as most touristy knickknacks from Memphis are wont to do) and manned my space. We had five free minutes before the wasps made a wasp-line to my daughter. I went into battle with that rubber swatter and free of curses and bad words of any kind dilligently chased that yellow jacket until I vanquished it from the bluestone. I swatted three more away before the multitude descended and we retreated.

But not before my kids had enjoyed 10 minutes of an excellent fall day.

I have never been prouder of my skills as a mother.

Because parenting is so subtle and mysterious and confrontational and mind-numbing. Clear-cut victories are rare. And fleeting.

I think all parents chase various monsters with rubber swords. The vast majority of us are incredibly fortunate that our monsters are small, relatively (hopefully) easy to slay. Our monsters are not of the Tyrannosaurus Rex size, like Schuyler’s. And yet, Robert and his wife show us how to deal with them directly, honestly, with insight and most of all with passionate love for their beautiful daughter, who lives her life in laughter and, because of her parents’ persistence, with words.

Rashomon: The Ill-Fated Blogger Sleepover

I am proud of this unintended blog hop of sorts, which gives three different perspectives of the same event. Not only are the posts a testament to how strong the bonds of friendship can be, but I believe there’s some insight here about how everyone’s history plays into their engagement with friends.

I have always been fascinated by the idea of a one-time event told from more than one point of view. I always try so hard to put myself in others’ shoes. And often fail. But my experiences with infertility and loss taught me many things and one of them is: you never understand what someone is going through until you are truly in their head. And no one can ever be in anyone’s head unless a blogger or writer is willing to be bold enough to put you there.

Here are the facts:

- Bodega Bliss, Stumbling Gracefully and I became great, real-life friends. We met through Stirrup Queens‘ ICLW (probably in December/January of this year: none of us are exactly sure of the date)
- Although we don’t live in the general vicinity, we live close enough to meet up in coordinated, concerted efforts
- None of us meet as often as we’d like because of logistical challenges
- Stumbling Gracefully, upon realizing that her partner Mi.Vida and my husband Darcy would BOTH be out of town the same weekend coordinated a sleepover at my house with Bodega, myself and herself so we could have some quality time all together
- Darcy came back earlier than expected

If you are not familiar with “Rashomon effect”, here is what you need to know. The famed Japanese director Akira Kurosawa wrote and directed “Rashomon” in 1950, and the movie tells the story of a crime in four different stories, based on what each character or victim saw and felt. According to Wikipedia: “The stories are mutually contradictory and not even the final version can be seen as unmotivated by factors of ego and face.”

Here is my perception of the event:

I have been burned by friends in the past and have a hard time trusting friendships in general. I had placed a lot of stock in this sleepover: my husband travels frequently and works many hours, I’m a stay-at-home mom of young twins and I don’t get out much. I had cleaned the house within an inch of its life, dealt with Darcy’s early arrival, talked him into making dinner and bathed the twins and dressed them really cute. Then I dealt with Darcy’s freakout about a late birthday the twins had to go to, no time to cook and a failure to be able to make dinner. I assured him we could order pizza. I could not wait for my girl time to begin!

Until:

I've been ready to leave the house for 30 minutes but I can't because icant find my wallet and keys. Seriously!?—
Esperanza Grace (@StumblingGrace) October 15, 2011

As I was trying not to freak out because Darcy had not gotten back from the grocery store (this was before we realized dinner was not going to be possible), I got a text from Esperanza:

“I can’t come. I can’t find my wallet. I’ve been looking for almost 45 mins. It’s nowhere.”

You know how people talk about their hearts sinking? Mine literally did. I was breathless for about a minute, just utterly and ridiculously disappointed by her text.

I immediately emailed Bodega, to make sure she could still come. Luckily, she could. It’s hard to say exactly how much I needed to see her.

Darcy returned laden with grocery bags. I told him about Esperanza, someone he adores and admires. “Yeah, she just didn’t want to come,” he replied. “She’s probably just too tired from hanging out with other people. She’s like xxx and xxx.” (Examples of flakey friends from the past.) I could tell that his own heart had sunk. Esperanza is a London friend. Darcy and I had incredible friends as a couple when we lived in London, and have not had friendships like that until Esperanza and Mi.Vida. We never had to put on a fabulous show for our London friends, or pretend to be fun or happy or engage in boring small talk or politely disagree about politics. We could be ourselves: debate, talk obsessively about sports (Darcy), philosophize about celebrities (me), laugh really noisily and generally act like idiots.

Luckily, Bodega is also a London friend. She entertained Darcy with tales of blogs she liked, food and baking. We all had a great time joking and talking really loudly. I thank the heavens each day that I made friends like this. I never would have found them without blogging.

Anyway, as the tweets and texts flew, I realized that Darcy was wrong about Esperanza. She deeply wanted to be with us. She had NOT flaked out. In fact, his theory could not be less the case.

When you only get to see your fiends once every few months missing it really hurts. Also, being a dumbshit and losing your wallet sucks ass.—
Esperanza Grace (@StumblingGrace) October 16, 2011

Then, she posted this. Please read it. Because I think all the times someone flaked on me, probably something like this was in the background. I also feel when someone bails on me, it’s a matter of bigger/better. Like, someone had a better time with someone more important than me. A social climber dumps me to hang out with a richer fish, a mom friend dumps me because I’m too…something. I have been so detached from people because of fear. My fear of rejection is huge.

So I hope maybe this story from three perspectives might help. Please don’t close your mind and heart to someone. Anyone. You probably don’t know what’s in their heart and in their mind.

For Bodega Bliss’s view of the failed sleepover
For Esperanza’s view of the failed sleepover

Time Warp Tuesday: “Climb Every Mountain”

I am way late to this week’s Time Warp Tuesday. It’s been a crazy week, and also the only post in which I’ve quoted lyrics was that darn Glee post, AGAIN! Sheesh! I just can’t get away from that particular essay. There’s probably a reason for that.

But then I had a few minutes to myself and realized that I often post YouTube clips of songs that are inspiring me in some way. And I remembered this post, about climbing mountains metaphorically and physically. Again with the mountains! I suppose I write about Glee and mountains a lot.

I note in this post that I loved the song “Climb Every Mountain” from Sound of Music when I was young. If I really remember watching that movie, which we used to do every Thanksgiving weekend, that is a false memory. My favorite real song was “I am Sixteen Going on Seventeen”. In actuality, it was my parents who always insisted on turning up the volume when Mother Superior began her song of chasing your dream. I always remember my dad saying that the actress who played her possessed a singular gift for vocalizing. But I wonder now if that beautiful lyric and melody combination was more effecting to them than I realized. That it probably spoke to them, deeply.

While most movies and songs focus on new love, young love, betrayals, love lost and coming of age stories, there is not a lot of material for the “middle”. Most of life is “middle”: enduring losses, working exhausting and mind-numbing jobs (if we’re lucky enough to keep them), raising children (if we are lucky enough to have them), going through serious trials like financial crunches, and just the tedious monotony of our incredibly demanding lives, whether it be getting up at 5:45 AM to begin our days of driving, working, meetings, children’s activities and the exhaustion we feel when we climb into bed at 11:30 to sleep five hours to begin it all again.

“Climb Every Mountain” speaks to the middle. The wise mother superior, who has probably seen it all (except Nazis, but alas, that comes later), advises the novice nun to:

Climb every mountain,
Ford every stream,
Follow every rainbow,
‘Till you find your dream.

A dream that will need
All the love you can give,
Every day of your life
For as long as you live.

See, what no one told me is that after you achieve the dream you climb the mountain EVERY DAY. I am incredibly fortunate to have achieved my dream of having a wonderful family. But my dream of having a family does NEED all the love I can give, every day of my life for as long as I live.

And so an important, ignored phase in the circle of life is given words in this song. And I am grateful for them, because I so often need help navigating “the middle”.

Art and Infertility

Long ago, when Darcy and I were innocent and carefree and full of confidence and hope and planning our perfect wedding, we went on a trip. This is when we lived in London and RyanAir offered incredible deals: we booked a flight to Forli, a quick drive to Tuscany, for $25 a person!

We stayed in a total and complete dump of a rental in the middle of a vineyard which sounds romantic and cool but mostly involved broken-down plumbing and 10 mile drives to grocery stores.

The best day of our trip involved a drive to San Gimignano, a beautiful hilltop town with medieval skyscrapers. It was a stunning and unique city and we wandered into an art gallery. Darcy comes from a family of art collectors and one of his relatives had told us they would gift us with a painting of our choosing.

I don’t know much about art. I know what I like. Darcy and I fell in love with a painting at this gallery, by an artist named Rita Pedulla. The gallery owners didn’t tell us much about her, except that she was 35, had just had her first baby and was newly interested in women and fertility. Um…

I was so incredibly clueless at the time. While I had had intuitions that I was not super fertile, I had not spent much thought on getting pregnant.

And so, we bought this painting.

Oh, the irony.

Eventually we moved back to the states and moved into a new home. We were so excited to hang the painting in our bedroom. We thought it would inspire us and bless us. Oh, how wrong wrong we were.

During our housewarming party, a kindly friend noted the painting and said in a whisper: “It won’t be long now.”

Three years later we moved. Turns out I am as suspicious as a baseball player on an unholy streak. Once we moved into our city apartment, I banished the painting into Josh’s tiny office. It looked weird in there. But I wanted it nowhere near us and our procreation efforts. It mocked me. The painting of a round and fecund woman, glorying in her own ripeness. Oh, how I HATED it. But we had paid good money for this large piece of canvas. I had deeply loved it. I remember the lunch where we giddily consumed truffle risotto and delicious bread and discussed buying a piece of art worth more than one month’s rent! How indulgent it had seemed. How young, naive we were.

Once the twins were born, I didn’t feel so mad at the painting. My stomach had swelled. I had been that round. The painting did not fill me with longing and envy anymore. We put the painting in a place of honor, in our living room. It had endured the pain, the exclusion, the sadness of our loss of innocence, our joy at conceiving.

Then: I got pregnant naturally and miscarried. I was soured once again on the painting. But I kept it in our living room, this time.

We are changing our living room and putting our TV where the painting now hangs. There is nowhere else for it to go except our bedroom. I would rather eat dirt than hang it in there. Why?

Tonight I looked at it deeply for the first time in years. I noticed that the fertile woman has a platter in front of her and the piece of fruit on it appears to be a pomegranate. That’s quite odd.

Who knows what the artist’s true story is? Maybe she went through years of infertility and rejoiced in her sudden plumpness. Perhaps she chose the pomegranate very, very carefully. Perhaps she placed that piece of fruit very deliberately on that platter, as a symbol of hope, joy and enduring belief in faith that we can somehow achieve our vision of becoming a mother, no matter how motherhood is achieved. Maybe the painting is a metaphorical vision of women before they conceive or adopt.

That’s what I am going to choose to believe. Because art is ultimately a reflection of what both the artist intends and what the viewer interprets. I choose to believe, today, the hopeful version of the fecund woman because it makes me happy.

Has your battle with infertility made you suspicious?

Time Warp Tuesday: My Favorite Post, Ever

I’m trying to break out of a funk. I can’t think of a better way to do so than participating in the lovely and talented Kathy’s Tuesday Time Warp.

Today’s challenge is to choose your favorite post, EVER. I have a few favorites. (My Glee/Middle essay came immediately to mind, then I realized that I chose a post about Glee last week. Um, I didn’t think I was a Gleek, but clearly I am!) But today I wanted to highlight something a little more upbeat and inspirational.

A few weeks ago, Lori published the results of a blogging survey, and the results were quite surprising. One of the standout findings was that many bloggers reported they received the most comments on posts which they wrote quickly. That’s certainly true for me. I lavished hours and hours writing, polishing and editing this post. It’s not quite as subtle as I planned in my head, but I love the idea of rediscovering that childlike enthusiasm for adventure I used to possess.

We are having some unseasonal rain, and today I looked up at the hillside the pre-school is nestled into. My favorite neon green was not painted onto the hills: that particular hue takes many days of heavy downpour to achieve, but for a moment I remembered the color and the post. And I had a twinge of that special feeling of possibility and dreaminess. It was lovely.

The Past I Don’t Speak About Here, And Why

I really wish that I had found the ALI community when I was pursuing ART treatment and during the hell that was my life during infertility. It’s odd to be a blogger after the fact.

April has posted two incredible, brave posts about how infertility has made it very hard for her to connect with the outside world. I cannot express to you how courageous I think she is for talking about this.

I have bragged about how rad my twenties were. I had tons of confidence and everything went my way. Until it didn’t. I was diagnosed with a really strange medical condition at age 31, exactly a year after being married, right when Darcy and I had decided to try for a family. I haven’t talked about that here, and someday I will but not today. It lasted one year, almost exactly, but completely totaled my self-esteem, sense of adventure and belief that everything would always turn out my way. I had to go on disability leave. I went from being a vibrant workaholic winner to a shut-in. And I don’t use that word lightly. I did become a shut-in.

I decided to work full-time for our family’s home-based business, and I did that quite successfully. As soon as the medical condition lifted and I was cleared to start a family, I entered the world of trying for a baby with absolutely no confidence. Soon six months turned into one year with no results (not one BFP) and I knew. I was already alienated from most of my friends because of my medical problem from 2004 which had turned me into an invalid, and all I heard from them now was about their own pregnancies and BFPs and babies and shower invitations and christenings and brises. During that miserable year of 2005, 17 friends announced the birth of children.

People talk about women’s biological clocks ticking. Mine was a loud, metallic gong. Even worse, Darcy’s was the countdown from the James Bond movies: “4 months, 3 months, 2 months, 1 month AND COUNTING!!!” Strange how he, the one I had to convince to have children, suddenly had to have children YESTERDAY once the process began. But he’s a super successful perfectionist who drives everyone around him to do things no one thought possible.

2006 was a frantic, desperate nightmare of a year. I didn’t leave the house except to go to the infertility clinic. We decided our home was cursed and moved to an apartment in the city. 3 IUIs, nothing. All tests were good. (And we did them ALL). But I knew. June 2006: IVF #1. Disaster. One egg retrieved and I was diagnosed with premature ovarian failure. Then a miscarriage.

The news, more out of my power than any that I have received since to date, sent me into a spiral. I didn’t want to be anywhere I could feel out of control so I didn’t go anywhere. Darcy refused to accept the failure of my reproductive system. I was ready to exit the game, move onto egg donation or adoption. Those were options he was unable to accept. So we were stuck in a wary game of chicken.

I took a break from the infertility clinic and just worked, really hard. At home. At least I could make Darcy proud of the work I did there. It wasn’t enough. Every day I woke up knowing I was an enormous failure. Men can’t go to Carfax and check if their partner’s bodies are lemons before they marry them. I was a lemon.

Finally, we decided to try IVF again. No dice. And finally, one last time in Feb 2007.

IVF #3 worked but the pregnancy was fraught with risk, worry and bedrest. Once again, I was a shut-in. I went to one wedding and my own baby shower. Other than that I went to our local grocery store and my doctor and the hospital.

Then my beloved twins, the lights of my life, were born, healthy. I thought that would be my release from my home prison. I had finally triumphed over my crappy body! Life was good. I spoke to former co-workers, contacts. I could re-enter my old career, but the hours would be 80-90 a week and Darcy already worked more than those hours. His career offered a higher rate of return. So who would watch the kids? We don’t have family who would or could do childcare.

That was almost four years ago. I am still at home almost all of the time. For the most part, it’s everything I wanted. But then I’ll have a week from hell, like last week. And my body continues to be a lemon. I get tired too easily, get sick too often. I’m a bummer more often than not. At weak moments, I get sad I don’t globe trot, have a nanny, or write about my $175 (obviously non-existent) sea salt or see an awesome band in the lobby of my NYC hotel or live the “Dream”.

The truth is tragedies and hardships effect us in ways we would never know or could imagine they would. For me, they made me not want to leave the house. And I’m glad I realize that. Thank you, April, for helping me to “get” that. You are not alone. You are not alone, at all.

The One Where I Talk About Nothing Uplifting

Yeah. Sorry in advance. I don’t really have any funny anecdotes or semi-clever metaphors or beefs with the New York Times or hopeful quotes or songs. I wish I did.

This week has been: well, I think I can safely say that it’s the hardest week I’ve ever had as a mother. Darcy went out of town on his birthday, Sunday, leaving me with two sick kids not allowed to go to pre-school. Sometimes motherhood feels like a never-ending endurance test, like a marathon of Amazing Race episodes without travel.

This week I’ve dealt with:
- Two sick, cranky three year olds from 7:00 AM – 11:00 PM by myself, complete with tantrums, doctor appointments, refusals to sleep, coughing, high temperatures, trying to get them to drink and eat and get well. The worrying, the exhaustion, the frustration has been intense.
- A gang of raucous raccoons tearing up our lawn, kicking and chewing our soccer ball and ripping apart our goal at 3 AM. Apparently they HATE soccer. Twice they did this, waking me up and completing their ruckus by running across our roof, freaking me out. WTF?
- My son vomiting all over the twins’ bedroom. Poor little guy
- The topper: my daughter about an hour ago choked on a pita chip and started turning bright purple. She could not speak or cough. I had to give her the Heimlich maneuver twice, before the second attempt finally forced the chip out of her windpipe. She’s OK, Thank God. It was super scary. Poor little girl
- I’m not quite over the pneumonia, and am weak and dampened.

I feel so scared and tired and incompetent.

And I don’t want to complain because I know how lucky I am.

So this tweet, this is what I’m clinging to:

Yes, this. “@RachLinGA: I hope we all get to find out how hard motherhood is.”—
Too Many Fish to Fry (@2manyfish2fry) September 15, 2011

Soccer Ball damage. Freakin’ raccoons.

Tuesday Time Warp: Waiting, Barbra Streisand and Glee

The wonderful Kathy over at Four of a Kind came up with a thoughtful and fascinating idea for a blog hop: “Time Warp Tuesdays”. “Time Warp Tuesdays” allow you to revisit an old blog post, reflect on it and decide whether your perspective has changed since writing the post.

This time, the theme is “Waiting”.

Kathy chose a provoking topic for her first hop. Waiting is a big theme for the ALI community. So much of our time is spent waiting for the next cycle, the next ultrasound, the next test, the next doctor’s appointment. It’s no wonder that Peggy Orenstein titled her memoir about her own journey with infertility “Waiting for Daisy”.

Once I started blogging, my own wait was over: I had just found out I had miscarried at eight weeks, and my twins (conceived after two and a half years of infertility) were almost two. But the two words I associate most with my own infertility journey are “waiting” and “hope”.

Here’s the post I chose: it’s about my Dad’s long wait to interview Barbra Streisand (that diva reputation is deserved), and my attempt to take on the Rachel Berry/Barbra Steisand school of thinking, specifically delineated in the song “Don’t Rain On My Parade”.

Don’t tell me not to fly, I simply got to
If someone takes a spill, it’s me and not you
Who told you you’re allowed to rain on my parade
I’ll march my band out, I’ll beat my drum
And if I’m fanned out, your turn at bat, sir
At least I didn’t fake it, hat, sir
I guess I didn’t make it

Here’s the clip of Lea Michele nailing that song. To the wall.

I was trying to gather the courage to create and post a video for Resolve’s National Infertility Awareness Week. I eventually did and posted it. It certainly didn’t set the world on fire, or win any awards. (In fact, it’s only ever been clicked on 55 times, so I guess I didn’t make it. But, at least I didn’t fake it.)

That song still is my marching orders. When I feel my feistiness falter or my energy flag, this song reminds me that what I DON’T do will have been perfect, but WAITING to take action prevents me, us all, from living, and living now.

Inspiration Vs. Aspiration

Because I am the last to everything, I finally saw an episode of The Rachel Zoe Project. She’s the “super stylist” who became famous for dressing celebrities like Nicole Ritchie and Lindsay Lohan all the time, because the paparazzi followed them 24/7 and they didn’t want to be photographed only in sweats and tank tops. Her 60s/70s/sundresses/platforms/giant sunglasses style is very popular today, especially here in California.

I have notes.

1) She was six months pregnant in the episode I watched and looked like she had maybe eaten a big burrito for lunch. WTF?
2) I don’t get her husband. He squawks about how Rachel spends too much money but then agrees to leasing a 7,000 square foot house for three people. (And a bunch of clothes?) He also decides to hire some guy basically to hang
out with Rachel and be her friend for the remainder of her third trimester. That’s right: money CAN buy friendship.
3) Whoever the wise wag was who noted that after 40 you choose your face or your ass should probably revise that downward to 35 for the super, super svelte. Just sayin’.
4) Rachel herself is charmingly self-deprecating. She says at one point that she never thinks that anyone will ever come to a party she hosts. And you can tell that she really, really means it.
5) I kinda like her spirit. I disapprove of her weight, but I do like that she’s attempting to shift a paradigm of fashion that has existed since Coco Chanel’s reinvention of the fashion house in the 1920s.

Fashion for almost the last century has mostly focused on the “High”: collections shown in Paris, Milan and NYC sold at a high price to the upper classes, then knocked off and distributed through middle-end shops and department stores and finally discounted to the lowest prices to the masses. Fashion, while maybe inspired by the street styles of London or Brooklyn, really is a few style makers (mostly men) dictating in a trickle down way what we women wear.

Fashion for the last century has been, for the most part, Aspirational. We see what comes from on high, then we want it. In college everyone wore flannel shirts, jeans, boots, leather belts. Marc Jacobs, a high fashion designer, had designed my college uniform with his infamous “Grunge” collection in 92. As well as the casual, jeans and floral dress heavy styles that lasted pretty much throughout the 90s.

You may be noticing that ankle boots are having a moment. They actually first showed up in the 2007/2008 collections of Chanel and Prada. Vogue declared 2009 “…the year of the ankle boot.” From there they filtered through the fashion pages into other midpriced collections like Nine West, finally making an appearance in our every day life this fall: Kohl’s, Payless Shoe Source now has variations on the ankle boot.

Something different is individual fashion bloggers who each have their own unique style and have garnered followings. Reading someone like Tavi is like reading one of my back issues of Vogue in ’92. Sonic Youth? Grunge? 70s revival? Been there, done that.

What I like best is bloggers who have their own unique style little affected by the big designers. Women like Nie Nie who has created her own sort of wholesome Americana style. Or, LuLu Letty, whose style does not pay any attention to the overlords of fashion: her style is sublimely unique: featuring moccasins and penny loafers, Graphic sweaters and vintage blouses and skirts. Lulu Letty is a fashion original. I find her inspirational: she has created a new look by not using the usual touchstones and created a style her own. Another favorite of mine is Danimezza, another fashion blogger who creates chic, timeless looks for herself in plus sizes. Her outfits are about as polished and unique as it gets.

Do you think that Fashion should be aspirational, mostly looking to a few tastemakers to determine the trends for the next few years or would you prefer to follow a more inspirational look?

How do you pick your clothes? Do you look online at bloggers? Do you look at Vogue? Do you follow trends at Macy’s/Kohls/peer pressure?

In this economy, should we still admire clothes that we will never ever be able to fit into or afford? Or should we look for inspiration elsewhere?

Postscript: I was looking for dresses for a wedding a few years ago and went to a Barney’s sale. I found a lovely couture gown, by Isabel Toledo, for Anne Klein. Apparently there was only one collection done. Isabel Toledo went on to greater fame after designing Michelle Obama’s inauguration outfit. Anyway, the dress was a different color and hem length to the one shown on the runway. It looked very different than the dress did on the runway. The dress was originally $1800. I got it for $250. I felt pretty good about that.

From the runway

To the hanger

To being worn by a size 6

Welcome, ICLWers!

Welcome to my site! I am so excited to do ICLW again and meet new people and reconnect with old friends.

Since the last time I participated, I’m happy to say that I took the The New York Times to task about their infertility coverage (I am not sure they have noticed) and came out of the closet about my infertility and unhappy to say that I wrote a lot less than I wanted to about joy.

Here’s my greatest hits:

Coming out of the infertility closet (in response to that horrendous Facebook meme)
“Are You Infertile? The New York Times Thinks You are Rich and Whimsical”
“How Strangers Change Our Lives For the Better”
Want to help me make my living room look better with a nothing budget? Sure you do

I recently had my thin, terrible hair blown out at a local strip mall because I am recovering from pneumonia and wanted to feel better. It DID make me feel better.

But enough about me. I want to know about you!

Specifically:
1. What’s the best movie of all time?
2. What do you think can be done to make people more sympathetic and caring about infertility? If anything?
3. Cats or dogs? Why?
4. If you hear the name Beyonce, do you think of the pregnant singer/actress/dancer? Or the metal chicken?
5. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?

Know-Nothing Design On a Beer Budget: Living Room

I have absolutely NO talent in design. I tend to go stark. Because I am too afraid to clutter a room with mis-matched oddities. (Unless said oddities include legos, in which case, I make that happen!) Making it worse is that both my SILs are style geniuses in different ways. Kelly is a talented artist and she lives in a hundred-year-old farmhouse that she’s reinvented as chic and modern. She lives in Austin and her style is Southern Modern Chic.

My other SIL is also from the South, but she is more urban and modern. She just designed a black and white marble basketweave tile floor for her bathroom. It looks amazing.

Since we moved into our new home, we have transformed each and every room! Into a play area station for the twins. We have one grown-up area/living room which is a receptacle for chairs and more toys. Nothing goes together. We have art, but it doesn’t look right.

In other words, HELP! In other, other words: we have no money. So, clearly, great things are going to happen! I can feel it.

Let’s start with the enormous wall of light brick that takes up half the living room! It looks yellow in this picture, but it’s actually really, really white. Knocking it down would cost a fortune so I’m trying to figure out how to make do. I’m thinking if I got an ready-made white or grey mantle and put it over that fire hole thingy that might look better.

Mantle #1

Or Mantle #2

Which mantle do you prefer? And where the heck do I get a mantle for way, way cheap? Like $100 bucks? Are you laughing?

In terms of the rest of the room, I’d love for it to be seating, a built-in area for our TV and maybe a sectional. I don’t know what else. Here’s the glamour, the intrigue of our bizarre living room:

It’s a hodgepodge of uselessness.

Here’s Yellow/green inspiration! Love the sectional and colors. Don’t love the metal things on the wall. And where’s the TV?

I am quite partial to the whole Belgian grey/lavender thing since staying in a lovely hermitage there during my weird and unexpected business trip.

So I’m inspired by this photo. Where at least there is a TV!

What do you guys think? Mantle #1 or Mantle #2? Yellow and green or Grey color palette?

Thanks mucho in advance!!

Help Me Come Up With A Good New York Times/Infertility Hashtag

My letter to the editor was not published. And after I sent it, The New York Times published yet another article about another extreme case of ART, a sperm donor who had had 150 kids. Just like with the twins article, the article has no hard numbers whether there actually ARE large numbers of donors with many children. Guess what guys: if there’s no numbers or studies behind it, it is NOT A TREND!! Has Freakanomics taught you nothing?

Now The New York Times have turned this latest extreme case on the margins of ART into the following: A debate about “Making Laws About Making Babies” The alarmist nature of the article freaked out a whole bunch of people and legislation is already being discussed to legislate the infertility industry. Because that is what we need to be doing in this economy: focusing on this issue. Facepalm. What about the 1 in 8 people suffering from infertility? What about helping them? The comment section of the debate is full of more Amy Haibles. These articles fuel the Amy Haibles of the world.

Since it’s clear that The New York Times isn’t going to change its editorial policy of only highlighting the margins or extremes of infertility, I want to spotlight each and every article that comes out and call it what it is: biased.

What would be maybe helpful is if we could create a Hashtag for Twitter so we can alert others when a crappy article comes out. And mobilize.

Here’s the thing: I totally suck at naming things: the only thing I can think of is #nytimesdouchebags.

So: I’m calling on all you funny and clever wordsmiths out there. Mommy Odyssey? The Smartness? Runny Yolk? I know lots of you are great at this stuff.

What’s a good Hashtag which would represent The New York Times’ abysmal coverage of infertility?

How Strangers Change Our Lives For the Better

Thank you everyone for your incredible, stirring, sad and thought-provoking comments on my September 11th post. I thought of answering each comment individually but they were all so profound that I needed to really think about them all and not be flippant or glib or trite in my response.

A number of people have written about September 11th. These are my favorites posts:

Infertile Fertile
Keiko
Four of a Kind
Not a Fertile Myrtle

Mel at Stirrup Queens told an incredibly moving story. A profile of a 9/11 widow had changed her life. She hadn’t been able to find the story since originally reading it, but wanted to find it and thank the woman for her words, for her story.

I am on bed rest with pneumonia, which sucks, but means I have lots of time on my hands. I decided to find the article. First, I skimmed through all of the “Portraits of Grief” in The New York Times. Not there. Then I remembered that The Wall Street Journal also did some profiles. Not there. Then I seemed to remember The Washington Post did profiles of the Pentagon victims. And I found the article. I emailed it to Mel. Another reader also found it.

I had read all of the “Portraits of Grief” when they first appeared: a lot of my former job was keeping up with world events. It was heartbreaking to see those faces again. I had identified with the young, twenty-something victims at the time, as they were my contemporaries. I particularly remember and identified with Melissa Harrington Hughes, who lived in San Francisco, was a young bride and whose last words of love to her husband played and replayed over and over again on British news.

This time, it was particularly difficult and sad to read about all of the handsome, beautiful and vital fathers and mothers. But I was struck this time by how most profiles were defiant. How each of the victims had multiple dimensions, were exceptional in some way. They rose to great heights in their professions despite modest beginnings. They spent all of their money treating family members to new homes and vacations. Their practical jokes in the locker room of the firehouse were legendary and made many people laugh over the years. They always blew their friends off to drive their mother to the beauty salon. Somehow these profiles are life-affirming. Each of these people had profoundly made a difference to many lives, through kindnesses, through friendships and most of all through love. Everyone was well-loved.

Said the father of one victim:

“Make this a sweet story,” Ira Lassman said the other day, “about one little kernel of a human being whose life will be sorely missed.”

And I know that I rag on The New York Times about their coverage of infertility, but this series was brilliant.

I don’t know what I can do to change the world we live in, post 9/11. I vote, I advocate for change for the ALI Community. In the end I am a small dot among an infinite number of dots. Like in a Seurat painting.

But Not a Fertile Myrtle had a suggestion that resonated with me. Be kind, in small ways. Go to your local fire station and thank them for their service. Help people you know and don’t know in small ways. Fix someone a meal. Be like Bodega Bliss and Stumbling Gracefully, strangers to me less than a year ago, who brought me chicken noodle soup, paninis with fresh tomato and basil, and caramel apple cupcakes with cinnamon frosting on Sunday when I was down and out. I kid you not, those cupcakes were the best cupcakes I’ve ever had: Bodega Bliss is the next Martha Stewart.

So it begins: I will do this. Because Mel’s story brings this home: strangers can change our lives for the worse, but they can also change people’s lives for the better. And that’s the lesson from 9/11 that I most want to take with me for the rest of my life.

My Rejected Letter to the Editor of the New York Times

So this is the first letter to the editor that I have ever written. And, unfortunately, it was rejected.

There has been yet another article in The New York Times since I sent my letter suggesting they focus on the extreme boundaries of ART, which featured a rare case of a sperm donor with over 100 children.

So, clearly, my letter did diddly squat to affect coverage over there.

What I hope is that some of you craft your own letter as well.

—

To the Editor:

After reading the latest New York Times article about infertility (“Fertility is a Matter of Age”, August 31, 2011), I have to ask, why does your coverage only focus on the fringes of this subject?

This is the latest of many articles* to suggest only the wealthiest of citizens suffer from this disease, and that typical infertility patients are over 40, use surrogates and/or donor eggs.

One in eight couples in the U.S. suffer from infertility. Infertility affects people of all reproduction ages and incomes. Fewer than 3% of infertility patients need advanced reproductive technologies like in vitro fertilization (IVF).

Please look at the bigger picture and speak with Americans of ALL ages and incomes struggling with infertility. People like Courtney Cheng, 31, who has to seek answers beyond her family doctor after her fourth miscarriage. Or Keiko Zoll, diagnosed with premature ovarian failure at age 26.

Jessica Carroll Jaffe
Main Street, USA

“This Isn’t The Kind of History I Want to Be Present For”

The above quote is from Sarah Bunting.

Every year around September 11th I reread Sarah’s essay. She was an eyewitness to the south tower falling and her story is one of the few pieces of writing I’ve ever come across that retains its initial power: the shock, horror and pain of her account assault me anew every year. But I’m also always moved by the camaraderie she describes, from her fast friendship with “disaster buddy” Don, who readers mounted a failed campaign to find, to the vendor who would only take $1 for a pair of flip-flops she needed to buy after walking 20+ blocks in three inch heels.

I was listening to NPR the other day and they interviewed a soldier who, fresh out of Harvard, signed up for the Army after September 11th. He said he thought there would be a mobilized effort, bringing out the best in America, like during World War II. Instead our government told us to take out our credit cards and shop, which he felt was disappointing. And it turns out, using our credit cards to shop was a disasterous plan in the long run.

What I like so much about the infertility community IS the camaraderie. We see the dust, the ash of disaster on each other’s tights and we respond. We offer to make banana cream pie for those down and out. We fly out from far distances to meet each other in person, to share tears, grimaces of knowing and horror stories of Amy Haibles.

I know lots of you also do a lot of work in your communities for different causes.

I don’t know if I have a point other than to say: it saddens me that the world seems less united than ever after 9/11. America has been considerably weakened by both the expense of wars fought ostensively for our security after terrorism and the economic collapse triggered by many things, but extreme spending was definitely one of the factors. The gap between the rich and everyone else widens every day.

I thought maybe after Bin Laden was killed a type of unity might return. But it hasn’t.

I was working in my office in London on September 11th. We had an upstairs neighbor at the time who lived above us. He was an American financial analyst who worked crazy hours. We would hear him get into bed about 2AM each night and he’d by gone by the time I left at 7 AM. So imagine my surprise on that terrible afternoon when I walked home and saw him at the door at 5 PM. We made eye contact and I saw the same terror, shock and despair in his eyes. “Some day we’ve had, huh?” I asked, lamely. “Yeah, just…terrible,” he replied. “Well, take care,” I nodded. “You too,” he shrugged.

I never spoke to him again.

And I think that’s what happens to everyone. We miss out on moments of real connection. And those moments of connection could make us stronger, more secure, more understanding. There will always be evil among us, but by connecting more, maybe we could drive it out more easily. And I mean as Republicans and Democrats and conservatives and liberals. I know I have readers who are both, just as I read blogs by both, and also by Canadians, Swedes, Brits, Indians, Israelis, Palestinians and Egyptians.

Do you think by connecting with others from other backgrounds we foster more unity? Or are the issues driving us all apart so deep and bitter that we’ll never get beyond them? How do you feel this September 11th? More or less hopeful?

A plaque for a pregnant local woman who perished on Flight 93. And her story, which made me cry.

On “That” Facebook Meme and Coming Out of the Infertility Closet

“There are all types of courage,” said Dumbledore. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies but just as much to stand up to our friends.”

JK Rowling
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

When I was 25, I met up with a couple of friends on the corner of Chestnut and Fillmore Streets in San Francisco. As I walked across the street, in the crosswalk, legally, a red BMW 325 whipped around me and honked. A guy inside the car screamed: “Move your FAT ASS, BITCH!!”

I will never forget that moment as long as I live.

Everyone knows words hurt. Even when you are in a particularly good place, as I was in that moment (newly in love with Darcy, healthy, young and vibrant). But imagine being in a really sad state. When you are sad and vulnerable, you can be pierced to the soul by some venomous words, like these of Amy Haible of Maine. Amy Haible commented on the latest NY Times article:

Adopt, adopt and adopt. Our overpopulated world has too many beautiful children without parents. There is no small amount of ego in needing to have ‘your own’ child. Like #15 said, relax, let go, have fun. And there are worse things than not being able to conceive.

40 people recommended that comment, by the way.

I doubt Amy Haible of Maine knows or cares how much hurt she dished up in those 46 words.

No wonder so many people suffering through infertility turn to the anonymous, nurturing and incredible online community. So many of us are raw, down, hurt. Some of our babies have died. Some of us have waited years for adoptions that have fallen through. The last thing we want to do is welcome the Amy Haibles of the world onto our virtual, friendly front porch. She is our nemesis.

But the truth is many of us know Amy Haible. She’s our neighbor. She’s our cousin-in-law. She’s our former co-worker. And we are connected to her through Facebook.

When the now infamous Facebook meme happened, many of us cried when we saw the endless faux pregnancy announcements, which turned out to be a misguided at best attempt to raise awareness for breast cancer of all things.

Some really brave bloggers dared to call out the Facebook meme. Stand up to their friends and tell them why what they were doing was offensive. Write about it on their blogs.

Stirrup Queens
Runny Yolk
Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed

They state quite eloquently, much better than I could, why this meme hurt.

And after bravely posting and standing up for the infertility community, Mel and Elphaba began to get comments from the Amy Haibles of the world.

Well, I stand with them.

So go ahead. Make your mean-spirited comments. Bring it. Because you are petty and cruel.

My name is Jessica Carroll Jaffe. I am infertile.

This is me and a puppy.

Nothing you can say will change my mind. Because I read this tweet today:

I'm scared of the worst…that nothing will work…I will forever be the barren sister…lose my husband…feel this pain forever. (—
Kristel (@kristelklear) September 05, 2011

This is what infertility feels like.

And no words you can spew will hurt worse than feeling this way.

The Art of the Comment

Don’t worry: this isn’t another long treatise about the etiquette involved in commenting. But rather, an expression of my admiration for those who comment exquisitely well.

When I began blogging, I didn’t think much about commenting. But soon I realized that the community of bloggers I had stumbled upon was as valuable to me as my writing. Maybe more so. Participating in ICLW was a crash-course in empathy and also an illuminating lesson on how diverse and challenged and hopeful the ALI community is.

I’m not the commenter I wish I was. There are a few reasons for this. Sometimes the emotions that bloggers relate are so despondent that I feel I don’t have anything to say that could possibly alleviate their suffering. Sometimes I feel words don’t have enough power or currency. Sometimes, shamefully, someone’s joy makes me envious. That’s not to say that I haven’t absorbed many posts and celebrated with you or cried with you. It’s with a sense of failure that I admit that I haven’t commented at all.

Here We Go Again wrote a really useful post about how to comment. It made a big impact on me.

Which brings me to this: some posts I never commented on are the posts I remember the most. The words you wrote reverberated in my soul and stuck in my brain like rubber cement. Your words were sticky and true.

Here’s a few posts that moved me beyond words:

Stink-Bomb on “Fitting In”
Write Mind Open Heart on Death and Dying
Wistful Girl on “Carpe Diem”
Mrs. Spit on “About Gabriel”
Dragondreamer’s Lair on BlogHer
The Bloggess on Beyonce the Metal Chicken. Just kidding! But if you want a laugh, go. Right now.

There are some writers in the blogosphere who are immensely skilled at commenting. They have a gift for empathy. They take a lot of time to tap into the pain or joy of others. I wanted to take time to thank you and honor you. Here’s a few comments that have lifted me up, made me laugh and made me think.

Pick-Me Up

I KNOW that you are an amazing and talented writer and I know that whatever you put out there in honor of NIAW will be worth the wait because it will be honest and thoughtful and from your heart.

Esperanza

For Laughs:

I decided years ago that philosophy was invented by men with too few household chores.

Lut C

Learning From Others:

Do I think you should continue to try and seek joy? Absolutely! I think we all should – but I also don’t think you should feel guilty if you don’t find the positive in every single situation. For lack of better words, life sometimes sucks.

Maura

AND

There was a time when I believed that everything happens for a reason, but I don’t anymore. I now believe that we can (and should try) to make some good come from everything that happens to us in life (especially the challenges and trials we face).

Kathy

But I want to empathize that EVERYONE who has ever left a comment here on my blog has made my life better, more bright and sometimes you have given me a necessary kick in the butt. THANK YOU, ALL AND EVERYONE.

Are there posts that have ever moved you beyond words? Please link to them below. Which commenters do you admire?

Mad-Eye Moody’s Advice For the Next Time (And There Will Be A Next Time)

Thanks everyone for your help. I think together we have crafted a tighter, more persuasive letter.

But, I should have taken action earlier. I was not vigilant enough.

The problem? Turns out, you have to send a letter to the editor within 7 days of the article’s publication. Sigh. And Doh.

However, I’m sure unfortunately that there will be a next time: in fact, we know what they are working on.

Did you adopt from #China? Have you worried your child was taken from birth parents w/out permission? Tweet NYT's @johnleland w/your story.—
The New York Times (@nytimes) August 19, 2011

And when there is, I’ll revise and send a new letter ASAP. So, please keep me posted if you see an article on ALI in the New York Times. Together, we’ll be ready.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!!!!

——-
To the Editor:

After reading the latest New York Times article about infertility (The Two-Minus-One Pregnancy, August 10, 2011), I have to ask, why does your coverage seems to only focus on the fringes of this subject?

This was the latest of many articles* to suggest only the wealthiest of citizens suffer from this disease, and that “typical” infertility patients are over 40, use surrogates and/or donor eggs.

One in eight couples in the U.S. suffer from infertility. Infertility affects people of all reproduction ages and incomes. And in reality, fewer than 3% of infertility patients need advanced reproductive technologies like in vitro fertilization (IVF).
I invite you to look at the bigger picture and speak with Americans of ALL ages and incomes who are struggling with infertility. People like Courtney Cheng, who has to seek answers beyond her family doctor after her fourth miscarriage. Or Keiko Zoll, diagnosed with premature ovarian failure at age 26.

Jjiraffe
Main Street, USA

All statistics on infertility provided by Resolve. Please go to www.resolve.org for more information.

Articles referred to:
India Nutures Business of Surrogate Motherhood 3/10/2008


Her Body, My Baby 11/28/2008

Payment Offers to Egg Donors Prompts Scrutiny (5/11/2010)

Meet the Twiblings (12/29/2010)

An American Family: Mom, Sperm Donor, Lover, Child (6/19/2011)

The Two-Minus-One Pregnancy (8/10/2011)

My Letter to the Editor of The New York Times

I needed some good guidelines for writing my letter to the editor of The New York Times. I have never written a letter to the editor of any publication. So I decided to seek tips from, er, The New York Times. Here is their own take on what they look for.

In short, be succinct and engaging. Make your case in 150 words. Use facts.

I read a bunch of letters that have been published. Interestingly, unless I’m missing something, I didn’t see any letters published about THAT ARTICLE.

OK. So here’s my take:

To the Editor:

After reading the latest New York Times article about infertility (The Two-Minus-One Pregnancy, August 10, 2011), I am puzzled why your coverage seems to focus on the fringes and boundaries of this subject.

One in eight couples in the U.S. suffer from infertility. Infertility affects people of all reproduction ages and incomes.

If you read the published articles about infertility in The New York Times, you would think that only the very wealthy suffer from the disease. Patients you have profiled include: a 46 year old woman using donor eggs, a woman with multiple homes who pursues many treatments and finally settles on surrogacy, a woman has “twiblings” after using two different surrogates and donor eggs.

These are by no means the TYPICAL infertility patients who walk through the doors of hundreds of offices of reproductive endocrinologists each year. In reality, fewer than 3% of infertility patients need advanced reproductive technologies like in vitro fertilization (IVF).

I would invite you to look at the bigger picture. Speak with people struggling with infertility of ALL ages and income.

Jirraffe,
Main Street, USA

Obviously I had to trim the focus and detail in order to make the letter fit the 150 word parameter (and I can’t get it under 180 words).

What do YOU think? Please let me know in the comments.

Pretty Flowers!

I am really sad and tired. But today I got to go to my MIL’s magnificent garden, spruced up for a garden tour. I think I have talked about what an overachiever my MIL is, but this particular event was so huge and important that a motherf-ing bus of TOURISTS (some of them were from FRANCE!) showed up to see her 3/4 acre of paradise on earth.

Here’s some photos from my phone that can barely do it justice.

Are You Infertile? The New York Times Thinks You are Rich and Whimsical

I want to dedicate this post to my father. Tonight he lies in a hospital bed suffering from complications as a result of a cancer surgery. My father had a long career as an intrepid, truth-seeking journalist, in a golden age of newspaper journalism. I flatter myself that he would like this post.

My dad, with his grandson.

Also, many thanks to Keiko, Mel and Esperanza.

Ah, the Grey Lady. Bastion of objectivity. Lately I have been wondering, though: what is UP with The New York Times and their coverage of infertility?

Let me start by saying that I respect most of the reporting that The New York Times does: we need their investigative journalism here and abroad and no one else can bring that to the table right now.

But The New York Times has consistently published articles that marginalize those who are going through infertility.

Bold statement, I know. Do I think The New York Times is intentionally doing this? I don’t know the answer to that. But here’s what I do know:

One in eight people suffer from infertility. Infertility effects people of all reproduction ages and incomes and those who are in their twenties are increasingly being afflicted. Those going through infertility suffer from similar levels of stress as those suffering from cancer. (For more facts about infertility, go to Resolve.) It is a devastating disease: that’s right, a disease. Yet to criticize and scoff at those who suffer from it is common.

All this most of us in the ALI (Adoption, Loss and Infertility) community know. Mel says we preach to each other and we need to turn the message outward. Keiko says we can only be heard if we keep talking, and talk loud enough in large numbers. I couldn’t agree with them more.

Back to The New York Times: the style/life section often runs stories about people undergoing infertility treatments. I have read hundreds of blogs about infertility. The vast majority of these are written by people who often have to postpone treatments because they can’t afford them, or who are unable to foot the incredible expense of adoption (for those who like to say, “Just Adopt”, know that adoptions often cost more than $30,000) and this is really, really sad.

If you read the articles about infertility in The New York Times, you would think that only the very wealthy (and whimsical, but we’ll get to that later) suffer from the disease. Patients profiled: a 46 year old woman using donor eggs who already has multiple children reducing twins, a woman with multiple homes, pictured with her baby and baby nurse (!), who pursues many treatments and finally settles on surrogacy, a woman has “twiblings” after using two different surrogates and donor eggs.

These are by no means the TYPICAL infertility patients who walk through the doors of hundreds of offices of reproductive endocrinologists each year. But you would not know this from reading The New York Times.

Other stories featured in The New York Times: the high cost of twin pregnancies (warning of the dangers of pre-maturity associated with twins!), multiples lead to dangerous pregnancies, how women should “lower stress” as a way to battle infertility (in other words, just relax!) and articles about “fertility tourism”.

When The New York Times covers infertility, there is almost always either an exotic angle featuring a wealthy person or, choice. Here’s where we get to the controversial issues like reducing twins, what to do with embryos. The subjects considering “choices” are treated as whimsical at best.

“Things would have been different if we were 15 years younger or if we hadn’t had children already or if we were more financially secure,” she said later. (From “The Two-Minus-One Pregnancy”, 8/10/2011)

And:

“It just never felt right,” Mr. Stansel said. “We prayed many nights. A lot of sleepless nights. Originally we thought we might do the reduction. We chose to carry all six and, we believe, let God do what he’s going to do.” (From “Painful Choices With Fertility Treatment That Leads to the Most Dangerous Pregnancies”, 10/12/2009)

Here’s the thing: The New York Times spends almost all of its considerable resources on the extreme edges of infertility, the boundaries of treatments. But for the vast majority of us suffering from the disease, we’re just in the weeds. Suffering from miscarriages. Taking Clomid. Saving for IUIs and IVFs or adoptions. Fighting with insurance companies. Advocating for a tax credit for fertility treatments. We are a significant percentage of the American public and we are not represented or accurately portrayed in The New York Times.

I don’t know how we can change this: maybe the hundreds/thousands of ALI bloggers could retweet this article and ask The New York Times to write an article about Family Act of 2011, S 965, which would offer a tax credit for the out-of-pocket expenses associated with infertility medical treatment? Instead of the next article featuring the wife of a billionaire hellbent on genetically engineering her children, could they focus on Bodega Bliss, who has suffered from her fourth miscarriage and has to seek answers beyond her family doctor? Or Keiko, diagnosed with premature ovarian failure at age 26, who is pondering difficult and expensive choices beyond her means? Or Dresden, who detailed her difficult voyage to become a mother while caregiving for her grandmother? Or Smart One, whose past history with infertility motivated her efforts to be a gestational surrogate? Or why not write about Broken Brown Egg, a group that is become a rising voice advocating for infertility awareness in the African American community. THESE are the heartbreaking and inspiring tales of infertility that are untold. And happen every day, to people you know.

What ideas do YOU have for telling the real story of infertility to the public? Are there other media outlets covering infertility more accurately? Are we doomed to being misunderstood?

Addendum:

I don’t have access to Lexis Nexis, but these are the articles I found about infertility in The New York Times in the last four years. The headlines are indicative enough of the intention of the articles in most cases, I believe.

Lowering Odds of Multiple Births (2/19/2008)
India Nutures Business of Surrogate Motherhood 3/10/2008
A positive article! After Years of Fertility Treatments, Facing Life Without Children 6/10/2008
Her Body, My Baby 11/28/2008
Birth of Octuplets Puts Focus on Fertility Clinics (2/11/2009)
Picture Emerging on Genetic Risks of IVF (2/17/2009)
The Trouble With Twin Births (10/11/2009)
Grievous Choice on Risky Path to Parenthood (10/11/2009)
Payment Offers to Egg Donors Prompts Scrutiny (5/11/2010)
Meet the Twiblings (12/29/2010)
An American Family: Mom, Sperm Donor, Lover, Child (6/19/2011)
The Two-Minus-One Pregnancy (8/10/2011)

Bizzaro Summer

I am a planner. I like to plot every move, execute my days with the certainty of knowing my decisions will lead to an outcome directly of my choosing.

I knew EXACTLY how my summer would play out this year.

Remember that episode of “Seinfeld” where everything is backwards? It was called “Bizzaro Jerry”. In the episode, everyone does the opposite of what they normally do: shiftless Kramer gets a job, Elaine finds new friends just like the gang, but opposite. (They are all nice and caring instead of selfish and silly.) The Bizzaro concept comes from a Superman comic book. According to Wikipedia, this particular comic book features “Superman’s exact opposite, who lives in the backwards Bizarro world. Up is down; down is up. He says “Hello” when he leaves, “Goodbye” when he arrives.”

I lived a summer in Bizzaro World.

In the real world:

- Darcy would spend two weeks in Europe. My brother would fly out to help me out for part of that time.
- I chose to not go to BlogHer, instead allocating our financial resources to a trip to Austin with my whole family. My kids would get to visit with my parents, who they have not seen in almost a year.
- I would have jumpstarted The Pomegranate Society.

In my Bizzaro summer:

- Darcy had to cancel his trip, and I went to Europe, instead, in his place, solo. My brother flew out to help Darcy with the kids.
- Our family trip to Austin was cancelled and instead of everyone meeting up in Austin, my brother and I flew there, drove 16 hours and helped my Mom while my Dad had cancer surgery.
- I did not jumpstart The Pomegranate Society.

In the Real summer:

- I would have not spent a minute away from my children.
- My parents would have had a treasured visit with the grandchildren they rarely see.
- Everything would have progressed on schedule, with little spontaneity.

In Bizzaro summer:

- I spent two weeks (!) away from the kids.
- I hung out with my beloved London friends, in London.
- I took a road trip with my brother, eating food from BBQ dives, Tex-mex places, singing Foster the People lyrics. I laughed so hard I could hardly drive as I listened to his story of the concert he put together for Matt and Kim in two days which featured a buddy’s first (and last) performance as “Mr Hand” – he played samples of obscure dialogue like “I smell a rat” over techno beats – and Caged Match to the Death. Matt and Kim are a Brooklyn hipster duo who sing about life and love in the big city, so to say that the audience and concert were a mismatch would be an understatement.

Thinking of these experiences, I shake my head and wonder if I somehow dreamed up the whole thing. But I didn’t and I have to admit that Bizarro Summer was kind of good for me. There was an escapist element to it all. Me, the SAHM who is all about routine, was shaken out of it by external forces beyond my control.

I am sad that my kids didn’t see their grandparents in person, but we did a Facetime call with my them and to my Dad that meant a tremendous amount. It sucks that we lost almost all of the money on the rental house and our flights were non-refundable. But this weekend, with the money we did get back from the rental, we drove down to Monterey and stayed one night in a hotel with the kids. And it was really fun.

My dad is right. Life is lived better when you are as the bamboo, who can flow where the wind blows.

I think the song below is the soundtrack for Bizarro Summer.

On London, David Gergen and Our Basic Values

I was in London on July 23rd of this year. I lived in London for years. The riots have spread to the areas I lived in: the pubs I frequented, restaurants I ate in, theaters I watched movies at, and stores I shopped at are literally up in smoke. It makes me incredibly sad. My good friends, friends I dined with in the grey and ancient city on July 22nd, have sent me the most disturbing reports today, of teens running down their street in hoods and masks, breaking into local and family-owned businesses to steal puzzling items like Immodium AD as well as big ticket items like plasma TVs. These kids are throwing bricks into private homes, they are burning businesses global and local. MOST FRUSTRATING OF ALL: No one in America is covering this major story, which has wide repercussions globally.

Having lived in London, I think I can speak to a few socioeconomic factors: most of the city, with a few exceptions, is very integrated. What does this mean? In Notting Hill, where I lived, two doors down from multi-millionaires was a public housing block. A Richard Branson look-alike (maybe even the genuine article) would cruise our street in his blue Aston Martin. (In fact, he almost hit me one time and was completely without remorse, driving away and giving me the finger for daring to get in his way.) So, cheek to jowl, there was immense wealth and pretty serious poverty. And middle class earners like myself living in small, overpriced apartments.

Three weeks ago when I was there, I noticed how upmarket, built-up and frankly shiny so many areas of London were. A lot of the grit I remember was gone. I imagine some of that was the money spent on upgrading the city for the upcoming Olympics next year. I noticed on the street where I lived, again half a block from the massive tower of council housing, was parked a Porsche Cayenne, a Lamborghini and a number of Minis and BMWs. There is a lot of money in London, and a lot of no money. Having the two next to each other, in the midst of a serious recession, in the midst of many cutbacks in government services, I imagine, was like having kerosene next to a blazing fire. Am I excusing the rioters? Certainly not. They are stealing goods and services and destroying institutions that help local communities. They are lawless punks, destroying the fabric of society.

But what was their example? The wealthiest Londoners live large, dining in Spitalfields market (much gussied-up since the days of Jack the Ripper), they buy their underwear at Agent Provocateur, they drink the finest Malbec and Sancerres. They buy their fur coats and size 0 jeans at Joseph in the chicly refurbished neighborhood, where the inflated real estate has appreciated but not for the poorest, who still buy their lottery tickets and crisps and cigarettes at the local grocer next door. The rich, even in this economic disaster, maybe especially, in the catastrophe that we are living in daily, are getting richer. Visibly. And not just in London. In America as well. They buy their Range Rovers, join the 11-99 Foundation and pay less taxes than ever. Meanwhile, the average American has gotten poorer. The average American gets taxed more, whether through state trooper tickets, parking tickets, increased local and state taxes. Their homes have lost value. 62% of Americans think that the Debt Ceiling deal profits the richest.

I am not anti-capitalist. I think it is the only system that works. But not the current form of it. The richest .01% of the country should not be getting richer, while everyone else suffers. It’s not good for society as a whole. It’s not historically what we’ve done as a country. We are in deep shit, economically. EVERYONE should pay the price to dig all of us out of it.

“A huge share of the nation’s economic growth over the past 30 years has gone to the top one-hundredth of one percent, who now make an average of $27 million per household. The average income for the bottom 90 percent of us? $31,244.” (University of California, Berkeley)

Let me tell you a story about my in-laws’ recent trip to Manhattan. They are the types who spend their money on expensive dinners when they travel, often staying at budget motels to finance their foodie extravaganzas. They are also very gregarious. They befriended a man and his wife in a fancy restaurant in Midtown. The man, in his 80s, collects watches. Watches are becoming an outdated technology, now that iPhones and the like provide us with the time. But this man had bid $250,000 on a rare watch. He did not obtain it, as it went for over a million in an auction.

DOES THIS SEEM LIKE A GOOD USE OF MONEY TO YOU? Of course it’s this guy’s money to spend as he likes. But this seems to be the choice of the super rich with their money. Buying ostentatious, outdated, useless items that don’t benefit the economy at large.

WHY shouldn’t they be taxed more?

There is a lot that is great about America. I am very proud to be an American. I recently read “Half Broke Horses”: that pioneer spirit of not wanting too much, not getting into debt, using what we have, saving, not being flashy – it’s in our nature. I know we as a people can do this. But we need to put away our selfish interests, like collecting rare watches, fancy cars, and silly material goods. I am just as guilty of this: I have bought ridiculous things. But the truth is: I am never going to be in the top .01% of the country. To buy goods to show others that I am not poor is stupid. Status is silly. And our obsession with it has gotten us into this mess.

During World War II, it was patriotic to be poor. Reusing and being frugal were virtues promoted at large. The richest were taxed at the same rate as the rest of us. We are in a crisis. We are a creative, hard-working people, united by our love of freedom and the belief that we are all equal.

“In 1945, households making a million dollars in non-investment income was 66%. Now, it is 32%.” The Tax Foundation

David Gergen, since you asked. We need to ALL contribute to pulling ourselves out of our debt mess. The richest among us can either pitch in, or move to Monaco in shame, their tails between their legs.

Or am I a foolish idealist? Tell me in the comments.

For more, go here.

On Relationships, Past and Present

As I prepare myself to travel to be with my parents, I remember something I wanted to discuss with y’all. It’s something many others have blogged about, most notably Stumbling Gracefully. But I was able to observe at close range a good case study.

We all know that once you have children, couples report a decrease in happiness, while couples who don’t have kids are more happy. I would be curious to see a study done asking those who had gone through infertility on both sides how happy they are. But, I think in general it’s probably true that the relationship between partners suffers when children enter the picture.

When Darcy and I lived in London (in a grimy flat) we became friends with another couple. (The woman lived in the grimy flat below our own.) This couple, I’ll call them the “Fabs” because they are, now live in an incredible magazine-worthy penthouse filled with spiral staircases and other deathtraps for parents. You see, the Fabs have decided to be childfree by choice. They have never TTC, they have no desire to even try. They want to travel, live together, and be fabulous.

I stayed in their penthouse for two days and the main thing I noticed was how attentive and sensitive they were to each other’s needs. They were very careful to take each other’s gym and travel schedules and work commitments into account. They worried about each other: “Mr. Fab has an early morning, so he should go to bed early.” Or: “Let’s make sure to park nearby because I’m not sure Mrs. Fab has her umbrella with her.”

Uh, I can’t remember the last time I asked Darcy if he even OWNS an umbrella. OUR conversations are rushed, kinda harsh in tone, as if the load of responsibilities on both sides is too great to add being solicitous into the mix. Often I feel like we are two workers on a factory assembly line on different shifts, briefing each other on the crucial tasks that need to be completed before one of us steps out for a break. To be honest, I was quite envious of the Fabs’ relationship. Because Darcy and I used to have that kind of relationship. Before infertility, anyway.

Did you have a more connected, solicitous relationship with your partner before infertility and/or parenting? Or have you been able to maintain that? If so, HOW?!? I really want to know.

Upon Jet Lag, Being Among the World and Finally, Bad News

My unexpected trip to Europe was like dropping an Amish person among the “English”. I didn’t realize how isolated and sheltered from the world I have been. I once directed campaigns and events for world players in business and politics. I had actually totally forgotten that part of myself. My friends in London and Europe are tasked with leading parts in managing the debt crisis. Their decisions matter tremendously. It was eerie to be among my peers who are in a sense making history.

To be on my own, making my own business decisions, was, I’m not going to lie, exhilarating. Peers respected me. London feels to me, much more than when I lived there like a major world hub. And I loved being there. Me: the suburban hausfrau. It’s the first time I didn’t feel that way.

I cam back exhausted from jet lag, but in another way refreshed. Until my parents called. My dad has been diagnosed with more cancer and has a big operation on Monday. It’s devastating. The procedure has a good rate of success, but it’s scary. My poor dad, who leads the healthiest lifestyle of anyone I know, has had so many
medical complications in his life. He’s such a wonderful father and grandfather.

So I’m headed out on Friday to be with him (he lives in the South) and it will be the second time the kids will be without me in less than a week.

Oh, life. Would that I could be more like bamboo and blow with these events as they happen as opposed to being the mighty oak: stiff, resistant to changes. Brittle. Broken.

Insert Lame Tuesday/Belgium Joke Here

Once, many years ago, I traveled alone abroad for work. That was back in the days when I had competence and self-confidence. And my stress levels were much, much lower. I didn’t have kids and I saw travel as an adventure.

I have to go to Belgium for a family obligation for a week. I know, I know. No one wants to read about someone HAVING to fly to Europe to eat chocolate and waffles. The family obligation is no fun and will be very stressful. But, I need to suck. It. Up.

I hate flying. I used to love it, but then there was the plane ride where the pilot kept getting on the intercom to tell us that they had to dump a bunch of luggage because we might NOT clear the mountains in our way. Flying scares me and I had a nightmare about my upcoming plane trip to London. Let me just say that if I see Kurt Russell boarding my plane, I will run a mile.

Mostly the thing that bothers me is I have only had three days to make this happen. I’m a planner, I like planning for every eventuality. I absolutely HATE the idea of being away from my kids for seven days. And not just in another town a few miles away. I’ll be 3,000 miles away. It makes me feel helpless. If I had had advance warning, I would have adapted to this in my mind, and best of all, gotten the twins ready mentally for the fact that Mommy is going away. They are super-attached to me and I have never left them for more than three days, and that was when they were much younger. I am worried that they are going to be traumatized by my leaving so suddenly.

I’m sure this trip will help me develop self-confidence, independence and moxie. I have no moxie any more. But right now I want to hide under a rock and ignore the whole thing.

Do you find that your sense of adventure is not the same since you have become older and more responsible? Or do you thirst for greater adventure in a life that may seem full of structure and routine?

On Being A Mediocre Parent

There is a promo for “The Next Food Star”, a show I have never seen, which regularly interrupts my enjoyment of “House Hunters”. The promo features many quick shots of people frying, wokking, wearing white hats and crying. Then there is a woman who briefly interrupts the action to say: “I am in NO way mediocre!” She seems very emphatic and angry.

I’m going to shuffle out an old chestnut and tell you how Webster defines mediocrity: “Ordinary. Of medium-grade quality. Neither bad nor good.”

I recently read an essay about Dan Savage (I would link to it but the NY Times pay wall is now up) and in it, women are taken to task for idealizing their male partners. Savage doesn’t want women to think of their husbands in a romanticized way: he specifically states that he doesn’t like women bloggers who code-name their husbands after heroes in any Jane Austen book. Right, so I call my husband Darcy. Guilty. However, I MOSTLY think him similar to THE Mr. Darcy because he in no way censors his opinions. You get the truth from him, even if it’s ugly.

So last weekend we were having a rather heated discussion with friends about SAHMs, parenthood and other troublesome topics. The tone was fairly defensive: many parties were deflecting sore spots by attacking others’ choices. Finally Darcy declared:

“Jjiraffe and I are mediocre parents. I have accepted that and moved on.”

I was rather flabbergasted by this statement. ‘Tis true, I am struggling with aged three, daily and nightly. I often think I am failing. But to be declared mediocre? That I was NOT expecting.

I have asked him to explain himself in detail over the last week. He thinks exemplary parents wouldn’t yell ever, would play more games, read to the twins more, be more engaged, be more patient, do more one-on-one activities with both and most damning of all: they would have potty trained their children already.

It is my deepest, most embarrassing secret that I haven’t been able to accomplish this. The twins just don’t CARE. It’s not that they can’t do it: they can. They just don’t want to. And nothing I’ve tried (rewards, M&Ms, the entire Toy Story character kits, special underwear, peer pressure, “naked weekends”, potty dolls, special potties, big special potties) works. Also, I don’t bathe them everyday. Three times a week if I’m really on a roll.

As an infertile, I vowed to never be a bad mother. I would NEVER yell at MY kids in a Target, I would never let them watch TV (ha!), I would never let them eat anything non-organic (double ha!). I have been so worried about not being a bad mother that I never realized that I was in danger of being something else: a mediocre one.

I get why the woman on the “Food Stars” promo was bristling because someone called her mediocre. It’s a loaded word: one that brings images of George Costanza, Michael Bay, Nicolas Sparks and The Olive Garden to the brain.

My mother was an extraordinary mother. I never remember her ever losing her patience with me. She made tasty, well-balanced meals, she took me to the park and library every day, she taught me manners. When I was sick she would drop everything to make my chicken noodle soup, keep me comfortable. She expected a lot, but never made that seem daunting.

I fail to live up to this standard. Every. Day. The twins’ demands, the yelling, the fighting: it frazzles me easily. The pickiness around food, the rejection of all types of dietary matter except five things: it drives me nuts. I shrink into myself, I get on my iPad, I tune out the noise. This doesn’t make me a bad mother, but it doesn’t make me a good one, either.

Justine said something that reverberated with me a week ago: she said there are mothers she looks up to, whom she aspires to be like. I aspire to be like HER: she makes yummy-looking, healthy food for her son, involves him in the process and is generally very thoughtful about being a SAHM. Then there’s Mel, who goes on geo-caching expeditions with her kids and got a really famous businessman to encourage her son’s love of computing. Then there’s Lori, who is extremely open and accepting and delighted about being a mother. And Esperanza, whose joy in her daughter shines on everything she does and thinks. I could go on and on…and there are so many wonderful mothers, whether they have had children who have passed on, or their children are yet to be. There are so many extraordinary mothers in the ALI community.

I need to work on being one, too. I owe that to the ALI community.

Who are mothers you look up to? If you are going through infertility, do you think that when you become a mother you will hold yourself to a higher standard?

More Harry Potter Discussion And Top 50 Mom Bloggers on Babble

I do believe this is the first time I have engaged in a popularity contest. It will probably be the last. But this is a big one, and I’m hoping you all can help

Babble is having a voting contest for the Top 50 Mom Bloggers, and I am (barely) in the running. So, I am asking for your vote. Mostly because I think it would be awesome to have an infertility voice in the mix. To that end, I’d like to ask that you also vote for the other ALI voices also in the running. Some of them have a real shot.

Here’s the instructions on how to vote:

Go here

Click on the “alphabetical” tag

Scroll to the bottom

Click on the 9 button on the list of pages, then click on the 17, then the 19.

My blog is called “Too Many Fish To Fry”, so it’s towards the end of the list. Other ALI blogs in the running are: Creating Motherhood, Four of a Kind, Here We Go Again, Once a Mother, Stirrup Queens, The Kir Corner, Write Mind Open Heart. Please let me know in the comments if there are any other ALI blogs also in the running.

OK, onto to the Harry Potter Discussion!

In my last post, I was discussing what I loved and didn’t love about Harry Potter. One thing I really didn’t love was that Fred perishes. Fred is one of favorite characters. I mean, how can you not love a character who exits Hogwarts triumphantly by blowing up the school with firecrackers that spell the word “Poo” repeatedly? Mommy Odyssey rightly points out that this wasn’t in the movie and that stinks.

Anyway, I saw a tweet from Amy the Bookish hinting that Fred maybe did not meet his end at the battle for Hogwarts. I was intrigued. Herewith follows her five part theory about Fred. It’s too fun not to share.

@2manyfish2fry There are many theories involving Fred's non-demise. 1. Sub "Percy" for "Fred." Easy fix.—
Amy the Bookish (@ArtsyBookishGal) July 13, 2011

Hee!

@2manyfish2fry 2. George illegally uses the a Time Turner to save Fred. (Someone wrote a fan fic.)—
Amy the Bookish (@ArtsyBookishGal) July 13, 2011

This one has real promise. I’m going to have to look up that story.

@2manyfish2fry 3. Fred only appears dead like Hermione did in the Ministry of Magic in HP5—
Amy the Bookish (@ArtsyBookishGal) July 13, 2011

Inneresting.

@2manyfish2fry 4. F&G cannot be separated because it's mean, cruel, and stupid.—
Amy the Bookish (@ArtsyBookishGal) July 13, 2011

Word. And I say this as a mother of twins. I can’t bear to think of twins separated.

@2manyfish2fry 5. It's literature in the fantasy realm. Any wacky thing can happen…right?—
Amy the Bookish (@ArtsyBookishGal) July 13, 2011

I like this. For more, read Amy’s brilliant post. I really like the way she explains how we become emotionally invested in characters and tie them to events in our own lives.

Do you read Harry Potter Fan Fiction? What would you like to change in the books, plot wise? Would you rescue any characters from death?

I Now Interrupt Regular Programming To Obsess About Harry Potter

If you’re not a fan, or you’re sick of all this talk about “Deathly Hallows”, skip this. Also, Spoilers A Plenty!

I remember when I dismissed the “Harry Potter” series as a fad before I ever read one of the books. I lived in London at the time, and Bloomsbury had redesigned special covers of the first few books to look less childish, so adults wouldn’t be embarrassed to read them. Every other adult riding the tube was reading one. I was in an insufferable book snob phase (it was the year we decided to not have a TV) and was working my way through “The Famished Road”, which…most incomprehensible book ever? (Sorry, “Ulysses”.) I went back to the states for a wedding, and I remember telling my friend about the adult book covers. Her response? “Don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

So I bought “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” at the airport and put “The Famished Road” in my carry-on luggage. And thus began my love affair with all things Harry.

Mommy Odyssey is writing a bewitching (sorry) series for “Key Pulp”, which details how the movies stack up against the books: mostly, unfavorably. It’s a must-read for Potter-philes.

I don’t want to talk about the movies, but rather what I loved, and didn’t love, about the books.

LOVE:
- The messages J.K. Rowling imparted throughout the series. It is our choices that define us, not our talents. Courage Matters, whether through small gestures like standing up for a friend or facing down a major fear, like fear of spiders or by reliving our past mistakes or worst memories. Love is what makes life worth living.
- Hermione. She’s a fully formed, flawed, likable main character who is involved in the main action of the story. She’s a girl/woman who often saves her heroic friends with her considerable knowledge. She’s smart but works hard to be the best in her year.
- NEVILLE! Neville is a nerdy, kind boy whose parents were tortured to the point of madness by Voldermort’s supporters. He’s an unlikely hero, who mainly demonstrates courage in small, non-showy ways. But the courage he demonstrates makes a crucial difference.
- Luna. Wise, unearthly, kind Luna. She’s spiritual, yet strangely practical and is the yang to Hermione’s yin. She reminds me of CookedHeads
- Fred and George. Maybe I’m predisposed to pay particular interest to twins, but I hearted them before I even got married. Their sense of humor, charm and mischief is wonderfully portrayed and they have the best lines: “Seriously evil wizard coming through!” Poor Fred. Sob.
- Mrs. Weasley. I know she’s somewhat controversial, but now that I’m a mom I’m simply amazed by her parenting skills. With limited resources, she raises seven superstar children, who achieve much success as adults. (Except for Fred. Sob.) She’s bossy, nurturing, a good cook, manages her household with aplomb and darns everyone’s socks. We all know how important socks are in the Harry Potter universe. And she has arguably the best line in the whole series: “Not my daughter, you BITCH!”
- Snape. Rowling had me guessing about his motives until the very, very end. I suspected that he MIGHT have feelings for Lily, but I didn’t see how important they would be. He’s deeply, seriously fatally flawed but he’s a romantic hero in the end.
- Historical echoes from World War II. I noted when I lived in the UK that World War II is a much greater part of the fabric of literature, movies, TV programming and even what’s covered in the news. It’s understandable: the UK stood basically alone against the greatest military power the world had ever seen. So many people died, the country was physically attacked and bombed and WWII is a great, pivotal point in the history of the country. Obviously, Voldemort is inspired in part by Hitler and his creepy “blood” policies were inspired by Hitler’s racist policies. The scariest scenes in all of the books to me are the scenes in “Deathly Hallows” of the Ministry of Magic. The Dark Lord has taken over, and his followers are free to persecute witches or wizards based solely on who their parents were. And Umbridge (shudder) runs a propaganda bureau in a Goebbels-esque fashion. Truly frightening stuff.

Don’t Love
- As much as it pains me to say, the books are not perfect. (Although they nearly are ;P.)
- GINNY – Among all of the heroes, she’s my least favorite. I personally think it’s weird that Rowling needed to pair up every member of the trio at the end. And while I know a few people who met their husband/wife in high school, most people don’t. I like Ron/Hermione a lot. But why the need to couple up Harry at age 16/17, too? And Ginny is a cipher to me. She’s MOSTly (but not entirely, as Mommy Odyssey pointed out to me: see the Ministry scene, book five), defined by what others say about her. She’s shy in the first two books, gets possessed by Voldemort in the second so we are unable to decipher who she is, seeing as she’s POSSESSED by, as Fred and George would say, a seriously evil wizard. Then we get a lot of telling, not showing, comments from Ron, Fred, Hermione in the next couple of books. Like: guys think she’s hot, she LOVES Quidditch, her boogey hex is the BEST, blah blah blah. Even when she is showcased, finally, in the last two books, I guess I just didn’t LIKE her. She didn’t seem very multi-faceted or real, but rather a conglomeration of characteristics that Harry might like in a girl. (Like being hot, liking Quidditch, being feisty, etc.) I even preferred Cho, who came across on the page as a real person. I have to admit that if I could trade Fred for Ginny, I would. To me, she is a Mary Sue.
- James Potter. OK, this one is going to get me in hot water. But I think he’s kind of a jerk. At least in the flashback scenes. I’m sure he must come around and be nice, otherwise Lily wouldn’t have fallen for him, but in the flashback scenes with the Marauders, he comes across exactly the way Lily describes him: as a toerag. I know that’s the point, and obviously he becomes the father who sacrifices himself for his son, but…I don’t know. Maybe Rowling will write the story of how he and Lily fall in love someday.

And, that’s really all. Before I read the whole series, I would probably have said that the whole S.P.E.W. subplot annoyed me, but the house-elf liberation front becomes crucial in the last book, and I like the underlying message of why the treatment of house-elves (and goblins too) comes back to bite wizards in the butt, so to speak.

What do YOU love about the Harry Potter series? And what do you NOT love?

Memory: Necessary Ingredient to Life or Hindrance?

Darcy and I had a discussion about memory over the weekend. I am someone whose memory is prompted by places I go. I live where I grew up, and my parents were outdoorsy people. We hiked every weekend it didn’t rain, and if it did rain, we went somewhere whether it was a museum, the library or church. I like to go to the local forrest or lake. It reminds me of growing up and my parents and brother. (Both my parents and my brother now live across the country.) I also lived here for most of my battle through infertility so there are also some negative places in my neighborhood, mostly a local supermarket and pharmacy. I don’t like to go to those places. Once I had my kids, I tried to visit them triumphantly, to put the past behind me. It didn’t work. Mel has a great post about how she studiously avoids places where there are bad memories attached.

But I love bringing my kids to the local beach where my father and I looked for sand dollars when I was young, the county fair where I hung out as a teen and ate caramel apples and the pizza parlor where I played “Miss Pacman”. It makes me feel like I am revisiting my childhood, yet in a new, fresh way.

We went to the sand dollar beach over the long weekend, and I annoyed Darcy by constantly pointing to landmarks and talking about my past experiences. Around that bend in the road is the bird sanctuary I went to as a third grader, that beach house was the one my Dad’s friend owned, where we went to parties on the Fourth of July, that restaurant is the one where my mom let me order a Shirley Temple. Darcy has had some really exotic and unusual experiences: he traveled Morocco for a month by himself and almost got caught up in a smuggling ring, he went to Albania in 1994 to see for himself what the conflict was like and got mugged, he lived in Hong Kong for two years. Growing up, his parents took him to three star restaurants in Paris. Yet, he doesn’t remember those experiences that well. I really have to ask a lot of questions to prompt his memories.

So I feel silly talking about my tame, mundane memories, but they are very important to me. As I pointed to the bar seat at the restaurant and relayed how I once asked the bartender for a maraschino cherry to top off my shirley temple, Darcy asked why these memories were so necessary to me. We had both seen a “60 Minutes” special about a very small group of people who remember in agonizing details every day of their life: from the trivialities of what they wore and the weather to the emotions they felt when someone cut them off in traffic or when their boyfriend fought with them.

Darcy is unable or unwilling to use his memory to relate to places we have been to in the past. He thinks of memory as adding depth to life but dangerous: people can live in the past, and that is a dangerous place to abide. He pointed out that there have been artists who essentially stopped living, full stop, in order to recreate the past. Proust famously lived in a cork-lined bedroom room, blocking out all noise to mine his past in great detail, thereby producing one of the greatest works of literature. Have you read it? I read “Swann’s Way” during my early pregnancy with the twins (I had hypermesis and was bedridden), because I wanted them to be smart. Of course, that doesn’t explain my obsession with “The Hills” at the same time, but I digress. “Swann’s Way” was the only novel that actively changed the way I saw the world. The dreamlike, detailed prose prompted by “involuntary memories” was sublime, and yet real. In reality, our thoughts are rarely linear and move in and out of the past and present, while contemplating the future. Yet, Proust’s writing was not confusing like James Joyce. I hated “Ulysses”.

What was at the heart of this discussion is this: Darcy worries about me living in the past, not moving on from the negative experiences of infertility and miscarriage. I admit that I am worried about this as well.

Do you find yourself triggered by “involuntary memories”, whether it’s going to the local pharmacy where you bought pregnancy tests that turned negative, or by the taste of a spicy tuna roll that you ate on the night you decided to live it up after getting a BFN? Or the smell of a particular soap you used at your fertility clinic the day of a retrieval? Or seeing photos of a celebrity who was pregnant when you desperately wanted to be?

Would you rather give up these memories, or do they make you who you are?

Casey Anthony, Nancy Grace and Ayelet Waldman’s “Bad Mother”: What Do The Three Have in Common?

If you were on Twitter, you may have noted that at 2:15 PM Eastern Time it exploded. That was approximately the time that Casey Anthony, the so-called “Tot Mom”, was found in a Florida court of law not guilty of murdering her two year old daughter, Caylee. There were many, many declarations of outrage. So many that I got the Fail Whale. I love the Fail Whale.

I admit that I avoided the trial and the case with a ten-foot pole. Why, I wasn’t really sure, but it just felt, for lack of a better word, icky. Since becoming a mother I can’t really bear stories about children in jeopardy or who have gone missing. When I was going through infertility, such stories stoked an almost unbearable anger: I couldn’t get pregnant, and yet many neglectful women didn’t understand what a miracle children were.

But finally this weekend, after seeing countless tweets about the subject matter, I broke down and read about the case. It is a drab, dreary, sordid case, filled with difficult to explain photos of a mother partying while her child is missing, strange inconsistencies of statements made to people, allegations of incest and molestation. I don’t really want to get into all of the details, because I don’t understand the case that well. But the media have made a lot of hay with the story. It was on the cover of People magazine. CNN’s Headline News has gained tremendous ratings off the trial. Primarily, Nancy Grace has been a particular beneficiary of the story.

Nancy Grace is a controversial figure, albeit a popular one. According to Wikipedia, she became a prosecutor after the murder of her fiancee. Later, she became a media figure on Court TV. She seems to focus on cases like Anthony’s or the Natalee Holloway disappearance: violence against women or children. From what I can tell from the limited viewings I’ve seen of her program, in Nancy Grace’s world there is black and white. With no shades of grey. I think this comforts a lot of viewers, who have suffered their own tragedies or just know that a lot of bad stuff happens in life. Grace makes them believe there can be Justice for victims of crimes.

The Casey Anthony case was nagging me, and I finally realized why: it reminded me of Ayelet Waldman’s book, “Bad Mother” which is a provocative, reassuring and sometimes maddening read. Definitely recommended. She writes about the magnifying glass put on certain “bad mother” cases like the Anthony’s or Susan Smith, and WHY this happens.

“While women have always, historically, been the enforcers of acceptable social conduct, even when it was to their detriment (remember Abigail Williams, the lead accuser in the Salem witch trials?), an hour or two surfing the myriad of mommy blogs provides compelling support for the notion that, in this area at least, we women are primary authors of our own subjection.”

Waldman adds:

“And why? Because the Andrea Yateses and Susan Smiths, the ‘crack hos’ and the welfare moms provide us with a profound personal service. By defining for us the kind of mothers we’re not, they make it easier for us to stomach what we are.”

In other words, my kids are currently watching Caillou and eating McDonald’s (Michael Pollan, look away!) and this makes me feel like a slug. But, this doesn’t make me as bad as say, Britney Spears circa 2007, or the mom I saw at Target who was talking on her cell while her five children terrorized the aisles.

I think this is why the Casey Anthony verdict has caused such a stir: there are such pressures on us now to be perfect mothers. Especially after infertility! Organic food, never yelling, no TV, breastfeeding only, no C-sections, etc, etc, etc.

Again from Waldman:

“The question becomes: How does one find consolation in the face of all this failure and guilt? One way is by reveling in the dark exploits of mothers who are worse, far worse, than we are. We obsess about these famous bogeymamas; we judge ourselves for a little while not against the impossible standard of the Good Mother but against the heinous Bad Mother.”

Do you think Ayelet Waldman is right? Is Casey Anthony a “bogeyman” that the media has built up to make us feel better about ourselves?” Or is it not that simple?

“She Will Always Be Young. She Will Always Be Beautiful.”

Major bonus points if you can match the movie with the above quote.

When I was in college, I was very, very poor. I would ferry my friends to the bars, and sip my coca colas, content to accept fees for being the designated driver. Those fees paid for my meals for a week. I was so poor that I once sold flowers at restaurants. That’s a terrible job, BTW. Please be nice to those women when you see them.

Somehow, I ended up in a sorority of women who were my superiors in many ways. All of my friends were pretty and well-off. Luckily, they were all really kind as well. They accepted me, my 1982 Chrysler LeBaron and loaned me their pretty clothes for parties.

There was one girl in my sorority who shined brighter than all the rest. She reminded me of Grace Kelly: she was radiant, she had a boyfriend who was gorgeous and really into her (who later became her husband), she came from a devoted family who lived on a fabulous estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean. But what I mostly remember was how nice she was. When she said hello to lowly me, and laughed at my jokes, I felt elevated in spirit and in self-esteem. I imagine it was like speaking to Kate Middleton, if she was kind and witty. I was never good friends with her, mostly because I never felt worthy of being her friend, but I held her in high esteem. Whenever anyone speaks of enchanted golden girls, I always think of her.

She went on to marry her college sweetheart, she had three children and founded a successful business. Then, I heard that she passed away last year.

I don’t know too much about it, but she was diagnosed with melanoma and fought valiantly, but ultimately succumbed to the disease.

I have thought about her every day since I learned the news. I have been told by a mutual friend who knew her very well that she was always the one who put on sunscreen, wore hats and didn’t tan.

I don’t know that I have much of a point here, other than to ask, yet again, why is life so unfair? I don’t know how to explain awful things like this. The passing of a young, vibrant, beautiful mother who had everything. I thought of her today and I realized that I am now officially older than she’ll ever be.

All I can do to honor her memory is direct you to this song. It is unworldly, it is ethereal, it is golden. It reminds me of her.

Bless you, Grace. The world was a better place because you were here.

Mea Culpa: I Suck.

The last few posts on Prompt(ly) have left me feeling fully ashamed of myself. Rightfully so.

The ALI community is a wonderful, judgement-free place of comforting words, a refuge from those who don’t understand, a place where you should never hear words like “just relax” or “comment, more!!”.

I feel like I tried to put demands on this safe refuge. While that was not my intention, it is indeed what I did. I deserve to dwell in that knowledge for a while.

PLEASE don’t feel guilty if you think you don’t comment enough. Those in the ALI community feel enough guilt in our lives without stupid rules telling you to comment more.

I’d like to conclude with this wonderfully true statement from St. Elsewhere:

“To be fair, blogging conditioned to appeal to a certain type of readership sucks the joy out of blogging. So write like no one else is reading and respond like you really are reading.”

Word.

Blog Etiquette: Should Bloggers Respond to Every Comment, Part Three

OK, so it turns out that there is more to say about why people comment or don’t. A lot more.

One of my favorite bloggers is Lut Cass. She has a wonderfully dry wit, and I’ll never forget when I was trying (and failing) to use philosophy to feel more joy, she told me this:

“I’ve decided long ago that philosophy was invented by men with too few household chores.”

Hee!

She has at least a few times provided a voice of sanity on various issues I’ve brought up here over the last year. Today on Prompt(ly) she brought up another group of people who don’t comment: those who can’t read a blogger without being pained. (For example, commenting on pregnancy blogs when you are dealing with infertility.) Or a blogger thinks they would cause pain by commenting. (For example, you are pregnant or trying to conceive a second child, and you think bloggers wouldn’t appreciate your comments.) It’s a valid point, and I know that I have not commented on some people’s blogs because I feel I might cause hurt. And I admit that it’s very hard for me to read about bloggers celebrating their third or fourth pregnancies.

3) So this phenomenon would be the third category: Conscientious Avoiders.

I think there might be a partial solution for this. There was a fantastic blogger who seems to have disappeared into the ether. Her name was Miss Ruby, and she liked to say that if you couldn’t think of something to say to her, please leave her a pebble. That way she knew you were thinking of her, even if you didn’t have the words. The pebble was this, I think (.) In addition, WordPress offers the ability for a reader to “like” a post. I personally would love to see people use the pebble or like function more. What do you all think?

In addition, blogger Moandwill offered the thought, echoed by others, that reciprocity might be disingenuous. She works 70+ hours and struggles to make the time for blogging and commenting. Many, many others are in this same dilemma. Surely we don’t want to penalize bloggers for not having as much time to write and comment as others?

Finally, Mel reminded me of another category.

4) Established Bloggers. These bloggers have an established tribe and social circle.

As Mel articulated this category:

“(There are also) those who want comments, but they feel that at the moment they’re full-up on support and have their tribe. They are fine receiving comments from others outside of their tribe, but they’re not going to add more people to their commenting/reading world.”

Justine suggested maybe bloggers should state what blogging intentions are in their bio (or categorize themselves even). Maybe this would reduce hurt feelings and misunderstandings, which based on the comments I’ve received so far does seem to be a legitimate problem within the blogosphere.

So what do you think about all this? What I DON’T want to happen is this, again from Lut Cass:

“I see a danger in promoting a blog etiquette that puts high expectations on ALI bloggers. And that is that the bar for entry will be raised too high.”

Blog Etiquette: When Bloggers Ignore Comments, Part Two

The discussion provoked by the topic “When Bloggers Ignore Comments” proves that commenting on blogs is no simple matter. Want more? There’s at least ten more fascinating points of view on Prompt(ly).

What I’ve gathered: it seems like there are two different types of bloggers, who have different motivations.

1) The Conscientious Commenter: This can be a blogger, like Stumbling Gracefully, who responds to every comment they receive, whether they respond to a comment on their own blog, or whether they go to the commenter’s blog and respond there. This can be a blogger like Mel or Lori who are both inundated by comments but who try to do their best to involve their readers in conversation in some way, whether by email reply or re-tweeting someone’s post. This can be a blogger who responds to some comments, but not all. This can be a blogger who FEELS there is a reciprocal relationship between themselves and their readers, even if they don’t do a lot to engage their audience.

But, as I suspected, a few have confirmed to me that there is, indeed, another type of blogger.

2) The Connoisseurs: these are bloggers who blog for themselves. They write because they want to clear their heads and make sense of events. They write to keep an online record of their writing, trace patterns in their lives through their writing. They want to perfect their writing. If they receive comments, that is a plus, but getting comments is not their raison d’être. Now, when this particular type of blogger DOES comment on someone’s blog, it’s not because they feel obligated to, or want to reciprocate. A comment from them is the ultimate compliment: it’s their way of saying you’ve done something to kick ass. They appreciate your post like they would a glass of fine wine or an object of art or a piece of s’more pie. Or because you really are that damn funny. Among the big bloggers, I’d probably classify Julie of A Little Pregnant in this category. Do you agree? FoxyPopcorn has confirmed that she is this type of blogger, and has asked for peace between the two categories

There should be room in the blogosphere for both type of bloggers, obviously. I think there are also bound to be misunderstandings between the two categories. I think I assumed that all bloggers were bound to reciprocate my admiration for them. Why? That’s not the way things work in the real world. Chris Martin may think that Thom Yorke is an unparalleled genius, but that does not guarantee Thom Yorke’s affection. In actuality, Thom Yorke doesn’t much care for Chris Martin. The unnamed bloggers who provoked the original post (neither of whom are Julie or FoxyPopcorn, BTW) probably liken my writing to Rebecca Black. They are not wrong.

I’m sure I’ve grossly oversimplified these categories. Maybe many people are a hybrid of these categories? I don’t want to set up some stereotypical buckets to put people into. I hate that. I don’t fit into any particular category myself as a human being.

I think maybe it’s MOST important to understand that there are different INTENTS behind blogging.

From Foxy Popcorn:
I think that acknowledging that my motivation for blogging could very well be different from someone else’s (is important). Maintaining a flexible set of guidelines that allow for and celebrate those differences is important to me.

My hope is that understanding this can lead to maybe better relations between bloggers? Now that I wrote that, I’m cringing a bit. I sound pretty grandiose. I AM listening to the “Inception” soundtrack right now

There’s more! These bloggers have written great food for thought:

1. Hannah Laughed, Sarah Wept (Part One)
2. Hannah Laughed, Sarah Wept (Part Two) Complete with the most hilarious photo I’ve seen in weeks
3. Beyond the Wallpaper
4. Project Progeny
5. A Separate Life

Have you been writing about commenting? Let me know in the er, comments, below. I am reaching Blog Within a Blog Within a Blog levels…and Stumbling Gracefully and Bodega Bliss know that I take my Leo movies VERY seriously. BTW guys, he’s 36 !?!

Do you agree with all this? Or is this all a gross oversimplification? Do you hear “Friday (…comes before Satuuurdaay)” as your read this post?

Next time: Do you want to have an easier time replying to your comments? I have talked to some smart people, and therefore have some ideas…

Bloggers Who Ignore Comments

I was listening to an NPR reporter interviewing a famous music producer. He noted that many songs are now coming from obscure writers, because they tweet a producer, the producer listens to a track online, loves it, cuts a deal.

The plus side of Twitter is that it is a very large Algonquin Round Table. One shaped as a pyramid. At the very top of the heap are the celebrities, the famous authors, sports stars, the movie stars. I don’t play on that top level. The second level down is the influential writers, directors, famous mommy bloggers, food writers, design buffs, chefs, wits, and just all around excellent masters of the art of the sharp, concise, terse yet powerful tweet. A lot of us play around with this level, and rarely get responded to. But if you do, it makes your day. If you don’t get a response, oh well. Then, there are all of the people who you follow based on your interests or blogging connections. These buddies are on your level. They are your peers, your friends. They commiserate on unique problems you may face (like infertility) or share your interest (*cough* obsession) with “Sherlock” or “Game of Thrones”. I admit that I sometimes feel like a loser when certain people I admire on twitter don’t respond to my tweets. But that’s unusual.

Blogging is different. I rarely comment on “the big blogs” unless I feel I have something unique and special to add to the discussion. Some of those blogs get hundreds or thousands of comments all with people saying the same thing over and over. But, then there are my bloggy friends, whose blogs I try to comment on as much as I can. Those blogs I have a special connection to (either because of interests or just friendship), and I comment often on them. Then there are other blogs, which I don’t comment as frequently on, but monitor and read and value.

Then there are the two or three smaller blogs that I really enjoy, whose posts always make me think differently about some issue. Sometimes I will spend 30 minutes working on a response, but the blogger either never responds to my comments nor do they comment on my own blog. I always wonder about them. Have I said something to offend them? Do they not appreciate comments? Do they not want discussion? None of these blogs get very many comments. And it makes me wonder if comments are, indeed, necessary to everyone?

To me, every comment is like a sparkling jewel. All of them make me think, and they all make me feel connected in a great sense to the world. I do try to either respond to comments or comment on people’s blogs who comment. Sometimes, I probably fail at that, and if so, I’m sorry. Is that what you think should be done? Or are comments superfluous, not necessary to your writing? Regardless of whether the blogger responds, what they have written matters to me and has made an impact. Maybe that’s enough?

What do you think?

Does Music Inspire You to Write?

I LOVE Prompt(ly), Stirrup Queen’s new project. If you haven’t been, go check it out.

I have been thinking of ways to get the writer-ly juices flowing. I have one quarter of a book to finish, and I need to get moving. But I don’t blog daily either, one of my goals for this year. So, how should I inspire myself?

I find lately that music can be that inspiration. I like the “Atonement” soundtrack a lot. As I was listening to it the other day, my iLike application suggested “Buckbeat’s Flight”, from “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban”. So I bought it, and I remembered that the scene the music was written for is one of my favorite scenes in the series so far.

Here’s the scene:

Isn’t this one of the most perfect distillations of pure joy ever put on screen? There are a few moments in my life when I have felt this way: walking up the aisle at my wedding after my beloved and I were wed, driving through the middle of a wildebeest migration and rappelling down the face of a mountain in the Alps. Those moments were far and few between: unless you are a mountain climber or an adrenaline junkie, you only have a small amount of them in your life. But, oh, how beautiful they are. And we should harbor them in our memory. Safeguard them for the times we have people telling us we are “less than”. For those times when life seems completely shitty. For those times when sorrow creeps in. Somewhere, at some time, you rode a hippogriff and yelled; “Woo-hoo!”

And that moment was worth 12,000 bad ones.

What’s Happening Now in the Adoption, Loss, Infertility Community: Edition Three

A while ago, I wrote an unworthy tribute to the Herb Caen columns that I grew up with. I’ve decided to make it a series. The point of “What’s Happening, Now” is to update you all about achievements and happenings among our friends in the ALI community. I hope to provide some fun, quirky news about our group and to remind us all that we are MORE than our infertility and loss. I hope you enjoy!

Are you dreaming of roaming the emerald green hills of IRELAND? Wish you could visit a medieval castle? Stay in a B&B? Get your hair did at a European salon? (I plead guilty.) Live vicariously through Fearlessly Infertile. She has put together an absolutely gorgeous, jealousy-inducing photo album of the highlights of her trip: it’s a must-see. Also, she’s hosting a giveaway: complete with Irish shortbread, a calendar of the Gaelic sights, a grow-your-own four-leaf clover kit (!) and Shutterfly coupon…Stumbling Gracefully tweeted about a deadly run-in with a herd of baby goats in the wilds of St. Louis. They ate her Anthropologie shirt! She has not written about it on her blog yet as she is still vacationing. But I can’t wait for the full story.

@2manyfish2fry We went to feed the baby goats at Grant's Farm. There were crazy. They swarmed us. They bit the babies' fingers and toes…—
Esperanzasays (@StumblingGrace) June 14, 2011

…Liberal Granola is counting the days until her husband, who is in the Army, comes home. She has been detailing her exercise and diet plan in preparation and she’s kicking butt.

The Pomegranate Society has officially been founded! The Pomegranate Society is an online writing workshop with a focus on getting works finished and published. We have some really exciting projects from some of your favorite bloggers (check back soon for the full list). I am sworn to secrecy, but trust me: you’ll be dying to download these books onto your Kindle. We still have room for one or two more projects but I am closing this first round of workshop early next week. So, HURRY!…Have you lacked blogging mojo lately? You’re not alone. Stirrup Queens had noticed a general malaise and lack of inspiration in the ALI blogging community. And she came up with a brilliant solution: Prompt-ly, a list-serve complete with blog prompts, news stories, a place to debate hot button issues, writing exercises, and news about publishing/writing/agents etc. Check it out…

Lots of ALI bloggers in competition for various honors this week! One of my favorite ALI bloggers, Lavender Luz, is currently in vying to be one of The Circle of Moms Top 25 Adoption Bloggers: Go and vote for her!…Keiko from Sarah Wept, Hannah Laughed is collecting votes for 1000 Women. Every woman who receives 1,000 votes on their story will be part of our special promotional efforts for our 1000Women campaign, meaning each vote for Keiko is a vote for ALI awareness. She’s almost at 100 votes. Please go and vote for her: if we could get her to 1000, we’d get some much-needed advocacy!…Stirrup Queens is up for a biggie: the 2011 Annual Bloganthropy Award. She’s one of five finalists. This one’s decided by a panel, so we’ll have to just keep our fingers crossed for her.

Readers, do you have any exciting projects, hobbies or stories to share? Or have you read about another blogger’s triumph? Please provide links below!!

Founding Partners of The Pomegranate Society

This Declaration of Intent was emailed to all of the members of The Pomegranate Society. It’s not too late to join: please comment below if you are interested in joining our intrepid group!

Hello all prospective members! I am so excited that you are interested in The Pomegranate Society. We are going to go get that publishing pot of gold. Together.

I have done a lot of research and spoken with MFA candidates and graduates, authors published and unpublished. I hope that I have solidified my ideas for this writing workshop. And, that you like them!

PURPOSE!

1. I have noticed that a lot of bloggers in the ALI community either have book projects, unfinished works or finished books that they hope to get ready for the publishing sphere.

2. A lot of us need a kick in the butt to move on these projects and finish them. And make them publishable.

3. Most workshops and MFA programs don’t focus on the end goal: getting your work published. The only program that puts a big emphasis on getting your works published is Columbia’s. Not coincidentally, their MFA program has the highest rate of published authors.

5. There is a dramatic shift in publishing: the New York publishing empire is crumbling and a new breed of small publishing houses are looking to take their place. These houses value talented bloggers with a reputation for authenticity. I know you all fit that description.

6. Self-publishing has also been very successful for some authors lately, and may be right for you.

7. We’ve all had so many crappy things happen. I’d love for us to produce something positive!

At the end of this workshop you may not have a finished product. But I hope that it will have given you the kick you need to EVENTUALLY complete your work, and publish it if you so wish.

METHOD TO THE MADNESS!

Only 10% of writers who attend workshops ever finish their manuscripts and publish them. It’s like going on a diet: you have to be extremely disciplined to complete your project.

What works best with dieters trying to lose weight? Community-based programs. Pairing them with workout buddies.

This is why I want to pair each member of The Pomegranate Society with another member. This member might have a similar project, or might be at the same point in the writing process as you.

Your partner will keep you on track. Both of you will come up with self-imposed deadlines: write a certain amount of words, or x number of chapters each week. Refine x amount, tighten x amount of work. Contact x number of agents. This partner will keep you accountable for these deadlines, like an editor or a boss.

Your partner will read your work each week, and you will read their work each week. Guidelines for critique will be issued: it will need to be constructive, yet kind.

In addition to the partner dynamic, each week I’d like to have each member submit a piece of writing to the critique group at large. Positive, but constructive comments would be given to by everyone. I have a few “guests”: professional writers, “stars”, etc that would also come once a week and also offer their comments. Guest stars, if you will

I also hope to do interactive Q & As with a publisher and an agent at the end of our workshop.

WHAT I NEED FROM YOU!!!!!!

Can you each please tell me about your project in detail: the genre, the plot, where you are in the writing process. I absolutely swear on my life that I will not reveal these details to another living soul. If you do join The Pomegranate Society, you will obviously be sharing this information with the group chosen. If you all want to sign NDAs to establish the trust, that is fine by me.

PLEASE tell me if there is anything else you want out of this program. I don’t want to issue commands from on high and want this to be as collaborative as possible.

Once I have finalized who is in and paired you up, many more details will be to come, including a critique schedule, the critiquing guidelines. The critiquing process.

I’m not gonna lie: there is some work involved here. But I think it is the good work, the sweet work which will increase all of our senses of self-worth and accomplishment.

What If My Entire Thesis About Joy Was Wrong?

For those who have read my blog since January when I first instituted “The Year of Living Joyfully”, you may have noticed that I have moved away from writing explicitly about seeking Joy. I am reading a couple of books about Happiness, given to me by Stumbling Gracefully. But I really have gravitated towards writing, creating “The Pomegranate Society” and finishing my mystery. Writing: the very occupation which I have resisted pursuing from a young age.

“The Year of Living Joyfully” came from my effort to snap out of a depression caused by a domino effect of tragic events, quite frankly. Back then, I thought there was some magical formula for being happy. What I am gathering from Buddhist monks, Deepak Chopra, Leo Tolstoy is the following: maybe focusing on Joy is the wrong move.

Then, this article, which is food for thought whether you are a parent, thinking about the parent you want to be or reflecting on your own parents’ style. My parents were very supportive and reassuring, and sheltered me from harm as much as they could. They intervened with teachers who graded me too harshly and also stood up to the Vice Principal the time I was suspected of telling the captain of our cheer squad that she was being a b****. (It was my friend who said it, actually, and I didn’t want to rat her out.) I had the seventh grade experience of being “Shunned”. That was about it. My childhood was mercifully blessed. Or maybe that wasn’t so merciful.

There appears to be a backlash on the current style of parenting: child-centric with a focus on boosting self-esteem. People in their 20s and 30s are feeling anxious and depressed, even though they had happy childhoods and good relationships with their parents.

I mean, jeez. How in the world are people supposed to EVER be happy if even the parenting style MOST focused on producing happy children fails?

Here is a possible answer, from The Atlantic: Maybe we shouldn’t be focused on being happy. “…research shows that much better predictors of life fulfillment and success are perseverance, resiliency, and reality-testing—qualities that people need so they can navigate the day-to-day.”

Do we really live in a world where the Stoics were right?

Assume at Your Peril

Assume…the word makes an ass out of you and me. As my English teacher in high school controversially proclaimed in class one day.

My college roommate announced the birth of her child tonight. He was born too soon. I am hoping and praying for the best…she’s going through the NICU roller coaster.

Why is it assumed today that the vast majority of people will get pregnant easily and give birth in a normal, yet amusing way? It’s not true. My friend almost died.

One in eight people has trouble getting pregnant. One in eight babies is born too soon.

Neither of these statistics is acceptable.

I’m so angry. And this is the latest slap in the face in a long line of tragedies this month.

Why?

Update on The Pomegranate Society

Lots of progress has been made with The Pomegranate Society! We have eleven excellent writers signed up, and the most I can accommodate is 16, so hurry and sign up now! We are looking for writers with screenplays, YA/fantasy, chick lit, mysteries and general fiction.

The Pomegranate Society will be structured to pair a set of writers with similar projects together. Your paired writer will be a workout buddy of sorts: you will motivate each other to meet deadlines. I am currently speaking to some MFAs about how to structure the critiquing/editing elements of the program so we can all help each other strengthen our material, keeping an eye on what will sell, the structure, character development and plotting.

I am also working on a list of critiquing guidelines based on successful workshops in the past.

Everything will be done virtually, and I will be creating a website soon for the project. Mel at Stirrup Queens has kindly offered to promote the project, and I think we should all read her excellent DIY guide to getting an agent and getting published.

I hope to host an interactive Q&A with an agent and/or a publisher (no promises: yet).

If you know of any writers who are working on similar works, please let me know.

I hope to jumpstart this program in the next few weeks. I think so many of us just need that extra push to start/finish our books and begin to market them to agents and publishers. If the critiquing project improves your book’s chances (which is of course the end game), Hurrah!

Please let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be in touch with you all individually soon.

CookedHeads said: “I feel…so…John Hancock…historical even…” I do too! Let’s use the shit we’ve endured and turn it into a Publishing Pot of Gold!

WHAT QUESTIONS DO YOU HAVE? DOES THIS PLAN TALLY WITH WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING TO DO? SIGN UP NOW OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE

Guts! Glory! And, er…Game of Thrones

I am super excited about The Pomegranate Society and the Publishing Pot of Gold! Yes, I crafted that name so that it would sound like a Harry Potter book. What of it? There are some truly gifted writers (like Keiko from Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed, Esperanza from Stumbling Gracefully) who are going to contribute. Yay! It’s not too late to sign up, either…there are some more gifted writers that I would like to see join up. (Ahem: Runny Yolk, A Half-Baked Life, Bloodsigns, Cooked Heads. And, you! But, no pressure!)

So, confession time. I have been writing a chick-lit mystery for five years. Yes, five years. It started out as a way to amuse my parents and then my brother. I come from an immediate family of professional writers and they have all been published, except for me. No pressure, right? I have a driving need now to get this sucker finished at the very least. Call it a bucket list item, or whatever. But I really need the pressure of a deadline, and my family suggested joining a critique group. But I didn’t like any of the ones I found and so many of my favorite writers are within this community.

I think it’s true that everyone has a book in them. I think so many of you are incredible writers. So, seriously think about joining.

I had grand plans of writing a chapter a night for my book, (I’m on chapter 20) and then I got sucked into the vortex that is “Game of Thrones”. Have you seen it yet? It is crazy addictive. I knew I might have a problem when Darcy told me he had watched five episodes in a row. He has never watched five episodes of ANY show in a row, except “The Wire”. (Epic but depressing as H-E-double hockey sticks.) So I knew I had to check it out from the beginning while he was away tonight. Cue me riveted to the sofa for three hours. And, scene.

Point? Don’t start watching “Game of Thrones” if you want to get anything done. And, think about joining The Pomegranate Society

Attention Writers: The Pomegranate Writers Group and the Publishing Pot of Gold

It’s not talked about much, but many of our best female writers are suspected to be fellow infertiles. From Isaak Dinesen to George Eliot, Dorothy Parker to Mary Shelley, who we know had a life-threatening miscarriage and lost her son at the age of three: these great writers were “our people”. They were able to create sustaining works of literature and channel pain into their art.

All you have to do is look through the roster of ALI bloggers to realize that we have some serious talent among us. Three bloggers tower over us all: Mel (the bestselling author!) and Keiko has some top secret project in the works. Calliope has begun work on a memoir about care taking for her grandmother.

These projects are documented. But I suspect there are many others of us who have a few chapters of a thriller or graphic novel, a book of poetry, a children’s book. A cookbook.

I need a greater push into the arena of publishing, and I think others would too.

What if we were to begin a virtual workshop where we critiqued and helped other writers refine their projects into what they are after. I’m happy to play facilitator and match up groups. I’d love it if by the end of the year we could get at least a few finished work with contracts signed.

The more books by the ALI community, the greater the message gets out. Plus, a nice boost of accomplishment for us all wouldn’t go amiss.

So what do you think? Are you interested in writing a book, from the Great American Novel to poetry to genre fiction? Would you welcome a support society? What questions do you have about how the project would work? Just to specify, you don’t need to write about infertility.

So, are you in?!?!? Or is this going to be one of the dreaded zero comment posts?

Joy and Pain, It’s Like Sunshine and Rain

So sayeth one of my favorite modern-day philosophers, Rob Base.

Sometimes it is just incomprehensible what the world is capable of. Someone I care about a lot has been stricken down by a cruel, unimaginable thing.

The duality of the world, the great joy and pain of it all, can cut you into pieces.

Darcy had a Deepak Chopra moment with a sports hero on Twitter. Darcy had watched a program about this athlete’s life, and tweeted about the tragic childhood this athlete had endured. Wouldn’t you know, this athlete follows Buddhist teachings? And he responded right away to Darcy, saying this: all the tragedies he had endured had led him to wisdom and love.

I am nowhere near this kind of peace with the harshness and softness of this funny, yet mean-spirited world. But I am impressed by our modern day hero. How inspiring that he can carve joy out of a past of granite harshness…I hope I may have the fortitude to look at the past someday with a detached, yet understanding eye.

But right now, I’m just so pissed for my friend.

Finally, Pampers produced a commercial about babies that is incredibly inclusive of the ALI community. It made me cry. If you’ve not seen it yet, here it is.

What’s Happening, Now: Edition Two

A while ago, I wrote an unworthy tribute to the Herb Caen columns that I grew up with. I’ve decided to make it a series. The point of “What’s Happening, Now” is to update you all about achievements and happenings among our friends in the ALI community. I hope to provide some fun, quirky news about our group and to remind us all that we are MORE than our infertility and loss. I hope you enjoy!

A Half-Baked Life provided an intriguing recipe for a Lime Pie this week. Do Lime Pies need the Key in them to be Lime Pies? I’m thinking now, no. Justine would not steer us wrong…Keiko of Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed dropped a bomb on Twitter: she will be writing a book! Sadly, no details yet.

So… I'm writing a book. Just gonna leave that little gem out there and pack up for the night. Peace —
Keiko Zoll (@MiriamsHope) May 19, 2011

I’m guessing it will be infertility-related, but maybe it will be a Vampire horror novel? Regardless, I look forward to downloading it onto my Kindle soon…In other book news, I am dying to read the sequel to Melissa Ford’s bestselling “Life From Scratch”. I went to the source about the ETA, and she responded thusly:

@2manyfish2fry Not sure. Hoping to finish before the end of summer.—
  (@stirrupqueen) June 02, 2011

Have you ever read Dead Cow Girl’s blog? It’s a fascinating look at a Dominatrix going through IVF. Yes, you read that right…Yolk reviewed a horrendous sounding show about noxious New Yorkers who name their children “Fox”. Yes, you read that right. I think Yolk should be our go-to critic for all Hollywood products about ALI….Finally, to my dismay, Lori has put “Perfect Moments” on hiatus. Wah. I’m going to miss this helpful exercise in joyful living, but her reasons for needing a break make a lot of sense…

Readers, do you have any exciting projects, hobbies or stories to share? Or have you read about another blogger’s triumph? Please provide links below!!

War and Peace: The Battles At Home And Abroad

I’m going to start this post with a big ole disclaimer: I hope this is not offensive. That is not my intention.

I read War and Peace last year and it rocked my world. I have not been able to convince anyone to read it, not even Darcy, who just read Freedom, which references War and Peace on every other page. War and Peace is free on Kindle. And it is the best book I’ve ever read, with the exception of Pride and Prejudice. So maybe, you’ll consider reading it?

To perhaps better make my case: I’m not a book snob. The last book I read was The Hunger Games.

One of the things I enjoyed about W & P (yes, we’re on an initial basis) is that it followed the doings among those on the battlefield, those on the home front and those whose home world collided with the battle field. It follows the famous and infamous and the nobodies. Because the book is a grand book about LIFE, it does cover pregnancy and loss. Because, this is something that has always existed.

The battle scenes are unforgettable and sear the mind. They are absurd, tragic and heroic and the after effects are chronicled. Some of the characters suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Tolstoy clearly knew about it before it was a word.

I was listening to NPR today, and they interviewed an Iraqi vet who suffers from PTSD. Did you know up to 15% of vets commit suicide? Battle technology has obviously improved since the war of 1812, but the aftermath on the individual who goes through battle doesn’t seem too different than what Tolstoy described.

He also details a loss that occurs during pregnancy and the unalterable events this loss sets into place. How devastating it is.

I don’t want to compare the warfare that soldiers face versus what many women have to deal with in regards to infertility and loss, because clearly it’s an apples and oranges situation. But, it’s just sad to note that both of these types of battle are still being fought 200 years after the events chronicled by Tolstoy.

One of the many things makes the book triumphant and worth reading is how one of the survivors alters the way they see the world. I don’t want to give anything away, but this character comes across someone who would be considered very zen these days. This person has a unique way of looking at the world. This character lives for the present and doesn’t dwell in the past, where tragedies happened or in the future, which looks very grim.

Again, this lesson is served up to me. Life is crappy and joyful, horrific and absurd, tumultuous and still. The only way to cope with the crazy ups and downs is to try to ground yourself in the now. And, oh, how difficult that is…

Perfect Moment: Weeding the Side Stairs

I was sad to learn that Lori’s Perfect Moments is going on hiatus. I totally get why. It’s just, I love the exercise. And, appropriately enough, I finally had the first one in weeks today. So I had to get this one in under the wire…

Yard work and I have a love/hate relationship. Growing up, my Dad assigned me many chores in the yard. We had a pretty large lot, with both a front yard and a back yard dominated by enormous trees. The tree in the back yard shed some kind of debris 365 days a year. Mainly though, it would lose all its thousands of leaves in the fall, sprout many weird fuzzy caterpillar oddities in March, shed those in April, then grow the thousands of leaves back in May. I was in charge of sweeping, bagging and disposing of all this material, a task worthy of a Greek myth. I detested that tree. I had fantasies about chopping that jerk down for firewood. I wish I knew what kind of tree it was.

We spent much of today gardening: planting tomatoes, a lemon tree, repotting some flowers. You know, the fun stuff. Everything looked so pretty and tidy that our side steps began to really bug me. Our pebble-studded dirt side steps go to an unused hillside that I have big plans for someday: it’s a bucolic spot perfect for raised vegetable beds, a chicken coop, a treehouse for the kids. That hillside is raw potential. And the steps had become overgrown with weeds, leaves and grasses. It didn’t seem right, and I decided after I put the kids down for their naps that I would tend to those steps.

It was not fun or glamorous to pull countless green and brown matter from the stepping stones, but there was something peaceful and still about the activity that put my mind at ease. I focused on clearing inches, then feet of dirt free from the ravages of nature. Soon the full eight stairs were finished and I was inordinately proud.

I showed Darcy, who was impressed. At the time, I thought it was the zen-like pattern of activity which pleased my brain so much, and I’m sure that is part of it. But the “Perfect Moment” came when I realized this: clearing those steps was a metaphor. By showing myself I could do something tedious and hard, I was able to understand that if I get through the dull tasks with pleasure, with pride, I’ll reach my raw potential, that hillside full of possibilities.

Like Yoda said: “Do or do not. There is no try.”

Bridging the Divide Between Those Who Have Gotten “The Call” and Those Who Have Not

My readers. My friends. I love you so darn much!! I cannot tell you how much your words, interpretations and commentary have meant to me. Four of a Kind nominated the two-parter about Deepak Chopra on Stirrup Queens as the best post(s) she had read during the week, but your comments are, of course, the main reason why. Here’s what she said:

What struck me as much or more about these two posts, as well written as they are, is the awesome discussion going on in the comment sections of both posts! JJiraffe’s readers have done an amazing job trying to help our friend make sense of and process all of this.

She could not be more right. I have been thinking about what you have said all week. A few notes: I have been diagnosed with anemia, so I am now taking an iron supplement. It will take up to six weeks to work, but I hope it will help me deal with my energy issues. The consensus is that Esperanza’s interpretation of Deepak Chopra’s words seems to be dead on. (She’s so scholarly and wise!) I want to understand more about Buddhist tenets, so I will be reading a few books recommended. More on this later.

I think it is no coincidence that so many in the infertility community seem to gravitate to Buddhist teachings. I personally feel like American culture has no interest in explaining, focusing on or shedding a light on those have gone through hardship. The focus is all on the beginnings: the magical courtships (with comical misunderstandings), the engagements (hubby-to-be drops on one knee in Paris at midnight on the Pont Neuf, cue the Van Morrison), the perfect weddings. (Like mine ;0 ) Grabbing the brass ring in your career, after an easy climb. Giving birth to your children. (In a funny but not scary way.) AND repeat, with your own children as the protagonists. There are few stories I can think of where the focus is on the middle. And most of us are in the middle. The middle is anti-climatic, hard, repetitive, tragic, filled with everyday drudgery. The joys are not as big. They are not in your face like a Vera Wang gown. They are smaller, harder to grasp. That doesn’t mean they are not as meaningful. But we have not been taught to think that they are. I get the mid-life crisis now. When you are in the midst of learning how hard life is, the urge to escape, through silly purchases like a sports car, a toupee, comic books: I totally get it now.

The problem is, the vast majority of people I am surrounded with IRL haven’t received “The Call”, and only know about the Happy Endings we demand as our due in life.

What is “The Call”? “The Call” is a brilliant phrase used by Wordgirl. I’ll let her explain:

I talk about it with X, G’s ex-wife, whose mother died unexpectedly when X was in her late twenties — and up until then her life had been relatively smooth sailing, so to speak — but after that call — it all changed.

She and I will talk about people who we perceive as seeming to guide their children through life without envisioning the worst of what can happen — and she’ll say “it’s because they’ve never had the call” — Whatever the call may be — whatever moment that shakes your worldview — it can be profound.

I know this will change, and as I get older, there will be none of my contemporaries left who WON’T have received “The Call”. I don’t want people to get “The Call” either. It’s just that I have a hard time, right now, relating to people who haven’t gotten “The Call”.

I know I’m not alone. Several bloggers have written about this, this week, like Mommy Odyssey and Esperanza. Both movingly write of their strong identification with “bloggy friends” and how communication has become so much harder with non-blogging friends. I so get this. Y’all have gotten “The Call”. I don’t have to educate you about why what I have been through sucks. You’ve been through similar and worse. And you have wisdom that is actually applicable to my situation. No one would DARE tell me to “just relax” or “just adopt” on here

But, I have to exist in the world of non-bloggy friends, too. I need some coping techniques to strengthen my relationships with people who surround me physically. I need to remember what I was like before I received “The Call”: naive, confident, full of helpful “assvice”. I did not mean harm and truly wanted to help friends suffering, and I said some of the dumbest things. Before. I know that the people who surround me IRL want to help me too.

So, back to Deepak Chopra, again. He said something helpful in my reading:

Judgment is the constant evaluation of things as right or wrong, good or bad. When you are constantly evaluating, classifying, labeling, analyzing, you create a lot of turbulence in your internal dialogue.

Boy, is that right on. I totally judge. Before I judged people about superficialities like what they read and what restaurants they liked. (Also, whether they were kind or good people, so you don’t think I was a total poop.) Now I judge people based on how they react to whatever problem I reveal (not that I reveal most of the crap I’ve been dealing with), which is unfair too.

So my homework: judge less. Be thankful that most people I know haven’t received “the Call”, and understand that they are in a bubble that hasn’t been popped. And maybe, also, some people I know have received “The Call” and are hiding it. Also, maybe some people are just jerks? Just kidding!!

Do you tend to judge people in your life who haven’t received “The Call” and say upsetting things? How do you let go of your judgement?

What the Heck is Wrong With Me Anyway, and What Deepak Chopra Had to Say About It. Part Two.

In part one, I was describing my life and in the later part of it, I felt like one of the ancient Greeks, constantly fearful of the gods’ wrath.

Something the ancient Greeks would do when they had doubt or fear, or needed direction, was go see an Oracle. The oracle, usually a woman, would go into a trance and provide advice that would need to be translated by other temple priests into a practical guide.

I was in need of a modern-day oracle.

Enter Deepak Chopra. If you’re curious who he is, I think this Time Magazine profile does him the most justice. At the heart of his appeal, to me at least, is this:

“Nothing feels more impossible than human suffering,” says a character in The Daughters of Joy. (One of Chopra’s books.) “We get trapped in it because we’ve lined up our unsolved problems like horses on a merry-go-round. Every day the same horses go around inside our heads. Old grievances, unforgotten pain, resentment, anger, failure and insecurity — the circle keeps turning.” Through his books, videos and workshops, Chopra offers a ticket off that merry-go-round. He is hardly to blame if, to date, there has been no shortage of takers.

I need to get off the merry-go-round. I need to let go of my fear. Is it possible?

The ancient Greeks didn’t believe in free will. I used to. I still believe that human beings can achieve great things of their own volition. How much of this is attributable to luck, genetic predispositions, energy levels, skills and hard work is a formula that has been recalculated in my mind in the last eight years.

If I could reinvent my own myth, my own story, I’d love to tell a different story. One that is as true as the current narrative, but one that tells a more hopeful chronicle.

In this story, I would be cast as an Athena-like warrior, who battles through disease, infertility, protects her children valiantly, puts her own physical health on the line as a sacrifice for her family, tells her story in hopes of helping others in their fight for resources to fight infertility. The truth is, yes, a bunch of shit happened to me (and continues to happen to me) but I have overcome a lot of problems as well. Against bad odds (less than a 10% chance) I conceived two wonderful children. I held them in my body, stayed in bed and birthed them. I protected them from harm. I took one for the team and did night duty so my husband could be the financial provider, fully rested. I protected my husband from getting germs. I survived many illnesses and remained standing.

The problem is, in this story, I still am associated with my problems. So, I went to the Oracle.

Does anyone have any smart strategies for not allowing our problems to define us? @DeepakChopra ?—
Too Many Fish to Fry (@2manyfish2fry) May 22, 2011

There must have been other people waiting in line, asking similar questions of the Oracle. So I was lucky enough to get a three-part response from Deepak Chopra.

In response to some questions: Our real identity is a non-local consciousness in which the observer and observed simultaneously co-arise—
Deepak Chopra (@DeepakChopra) May 22, 2011

Both "me" and "other" are subjective feelings or qualia in consciousness.—
Deepak Chopra (@DeepakChopra) May 22, 2011

Abiding in nondual consciousness there is spontaneous experience of love, joy, compassion equanimity, loss of ego identity and fear of death—
Deepak Chopra (@DeepakChopra) May 22, 2011

The responses are as mysterious to me as those that the ancient Greeks must have received. I have to admit that I don’t know a huge amount about Eastern philosophy (something I am going to change) but I know that quite a few of my readers do.

Oh, wise readers: can you help me interpret the words of the Oracle?

I’d like to invite EVERYONE reading to discuss Deepak Chopra’s words. Even if you’ve never commented on a blog before, or read this blog without commenting. Even (especially?) if you are one of my family members! What do you think these words mean? Do they help you to explain how you identify yourself? Can we craft a story together that makes us more hopeful and joyful everyday, in a meaningful way, something I think so many people want, not just myself?

What the Heck Is Wrong With Me Anyway, and What Deepak Chopra Had to Say About It. Part One.

First of all, I realize that I have been abysmal at commenting and posting over the last week. I’m really sorry, and can only say that I am starting to return to form. This is going to be a LONG post, so please feel free to pull up an armchair, pour yourself a cup of chamomile tea. Or, you know. Save yourself. Click out

I think it’s obvious that I have been pretty shaken by recent events. I have spent the week speaking about dark corners and light places with my mom in person, with my dad over the phone and this weekend, with Darcy.

Sometimes you need to spend time with those who have known you the longest to understand that SOMETHING is awry.

My mom talked to me of my past. She walked me through my childhood, my teen years, my twenties, my perfect wedding. I used to sparkle brightly, and no one would bet against my chances of doing exactly what I wanted. I achieved, I was a sunbeam. I had one big setback (a bad car accident when I was twenty) that I overcame. But, in general, I was a child of fortune.

But after I turned thirty, bad stuff began to happen to me.

I haven’t talked about it here, but the first year of my marriage I came down with a serious and mysterious illness which crippled me for about a year. After six months of scary anxiety and physical therapy, I “came back”, but it damaged my belief that the world was good. I now thought there were disasters waiting for me around every corner.

I wasn’t wrong. As soon as I got the all-clear from my doctor, we began TTC. Six months later, I knew something wasn’t right. All my tests were normal, as were Darcy’s, so it was another medical mystery. After rounds of IUIs, Clomid, then injectibles, my RE was puzzled so he recommended IVF. They only retrieved ONE egg from me during my cycle. I was 32. I was diagnosed with premature ovarian failure. I was told that my best chance to conceive was to use donor eggs. The next disaster had appeared. I collapsed under its weight.

But Darcy stubbornly insisted that we continue IVF, trying to use my own eggs. I didn’t see the point, but somehow he believed it would work. Darcy’s weird that way. If things don’t go the way he believes they should go, he will shout, curse, fight and push his way through. He believes this is his right. I had gotten to the point where I would prefer to crawl into a cave, and wait for the world to hate me less.

Those who have followed my story know I was extremely lucky enough to conceive twins on my third round of IVF. Once I received the news I was with child(ren), I crawled into a cave of bedrest, hoping that the universe would forget about me while my pregnancy gestated. I rarely left the house. I probably smiled three or four times in nine months. I rarely took showers. I took no photos of my “bump”. I hid the ultrasound printouts under my bed. When I made it to my 35th week, I was astounded. When the twins were born, healthy, and I was able to take them home with me, I couldn’t believe my fortuity. I gazed quizzically at the sky, waiting for something to strike me down. I had become one of the suspicious Greeks in the myths, awaiting some jealous or angry or petty or mean god to wipe me and my new, precious children off this earth.

The first year I anxiously monitored my twins’ every breath, poop, meal and feeding. I kept two journals for one year, for each child, detailing every bowel movement, ounce of breastmilk, then formula, then rice cereal, then organic strained vegetables that they consumed. I analyzed every inch of their bodies when I introduced a new food, and noted if there was even the smallest bit of baby acne on their skin. I used an “angel monitor” under their beds at night, which checked for movement, and detailed the amount of times it went off. I counted every moment they were asleep and awake. I noted each milestone, noted milestones that weren’t hit. I stood like an careworn centurion over my children, guarding them from harm, ready to throw my spear or wield my shield in the battle for their existence.

As the first year rolled into the second, my fear morphed into exhaustion. Even the most vigilant defender needs sleep. I became ill, and each bout of illness triggered panic that I would be unequal to the task of guarding their little lives from the disasters which, certainly, were waiting around every quarter. I got pneumonia. I had bronchitis five times in one year. Our home developed black mold. We had to move. My daughter suffered from some respiratory problems. Then: I got pregnant, without medical assistance, only to lose the pregnancy in the eighth week. The gods had done it again.

Year two rolled into year three. My dad in October, during a visit, observed my grim visage, my emaciated body. My lack of enthusiasm. My fearful waiting for the gods to curse us, again.

He noted: “It pained me to see that you had become a spectator of your own life. You went through each day, with its grueling demands and physical exhaustion, as if you were just putting one foot in front of the other, with no enjoyment, happiness or expectation that life was anything but something to endure.”

He was right. By December I knew in my bones that something was WRONG. With my body and soul. I created my 365 days of joy project to try to take control of this problem.

I blogged, I made new friends, I gained wisdom and insight from wonderful people. And a stirring in my soul arose. To live life again as a child of fortune. To not expect disaster. But mostly, I just wanted to sleep. My arms and legs felt, every day, as if I had run a race the day before. And when I napped, there was no replenishment of energy or oxygen or whatever. I was not living my life fully, and had become a train conductor to my children, guiding them through the many things they needed to do each day. Eat. Use kind words. Use the potty. Get dressed. Get to the car. Go to the classroom without getting hit by a car. Picking them up. Getting them to nap. Fixing a snack. Taking them to get exercise outside. Fixing dinner. Bathtime. Books. Bed. After which, I would crawl into bed with my computer and eat a meal, consumed with lassitude.

Darcy and I politely and not so politely negotiated a routine, so he would wake up with them during the weekends and take care of them then, and I would wearily join the family in the afternoons for outings and family times. Enduring.

When my mom left and Darcy returned, he told me that I had become “the girl problems happened to”. He said, “If I told anyone we know right now that you fell and broke your leg, they would say, ‘It’s Jjiraffe. Of course that happened to her.’”

This profoundly saddened me. Obviously, shit is going to happen. That’s life. There ARE disasters around every corner. The news about my dad just reinforced that. But how do I get beyond the disasters? How do I enjoy this “middle” that I’m in? How do I teach my children that there are jokes to laugh about, carefree afternoons of reading in the sunshine ahead, lazy rivers to watch, astounding vistas to see? Wonderful delicacies to digest?

How do I go beyond enduring? How do I move past my bodily pain and exhaustion? How do I become a person whose problems don’t define them?

Then I had a weird thought: Deepak Chopra. Now I’ve probably lost you. But, my dad once interviewed him. My dad is a Protestant who is deeply skeptical about “New Age ideas”. But he enjoyed speaking with him and thought him wise.

Someone I follow on Twitter re-tweeted Deepak Chopra’s thoughts on joy. I admired them and became a follower of his. After Darcy told me that I had become “the girl that problems happened to”, I wondered what Deepak Chopra would advise. So I did what anyone would do. I sent him a tweet.

Does anyone have any smart strategies for not allowing our problems to define us? @DeepakChopra ?—
Too Many Fish to Fry (@2manyfish2fry) May 22, 2011

Part Two: What Did Deepak Chopra Advise? And what did it mean? No, really, what did it mean?

The New Normal: Awakening

I’m in the middle of watching Salt with my husband.

Why do I always forget Angelina Jolie has boy/girl twins? She would probably end up being the celebrity in Hollywood I would be able to have the most relevant conversation with. Twins moms are a special breed. I know she has six kids, and probably ten nannies, but she was on bedrest. She had terrible morning sickness. She deals with two year old twins, in some way, shape or form. She’s my people.

Likewise, anyone who has dealt with cancer in any way, shape or form. I’m so sorry you’ve gone through this. I’m so sorry I didn’t have meaningful, relevant conversations with you all. You’re my people.

The “C” Word

…has unfortunately entered my life.

My mom is in town, and startled me with the news that my dad has cancer. He’s been in treatment for almost 5 months. I was wondering why he didn’t join my mom on this visit. (And I was selfishly feeling abandoned). Turns out he can’t be around kids for six months because of the germs.

They kept this news under their hat for more than six MONTHS! They should be spies.

The good news is the treatment appears to be working.

But I am just in total shock.

And I don’t really know what else to say.

Nie Nie Redux: Reflections on the 20/20 Special

I’ve been getting a bit of traffic for an old story I wrote about Stephanie Nielson, of Nie Nie Dialogues. When I did a news search to see why, I saw a link to a 20/20 story that aired about her last night. So I watched the story. And I hope you can watch it too, if time permits.

Stephanie Nielson survived a plane crash with 80% burns over her body. Her husband, who survived the plane crash as well, was faced with the decision to go back into a massive burning inferno and try to pull out his wife (and die in the process) or remain living for his children (he suffered significant burns as well), a choice no person should be forced to make. He chose not to go back. She made it out of the burning plane on her own, who knows how. What I have always admired about Stephanie, and now her husband as well, is the possession of honesty in the face of their great tragedy. She admits that she felt a terrible sense of abandonment. And yet, with no illusions and in the hard, frozen, iron light of day, she (and he) eventually chose optimism. She forgave him. He accepted her changed physical appearance, transformed by fire. And a real love story for the ages was unveiled.

We all have an idealized way we expect husbands and wives to behave. It’s easy to cast blame and imagine the heroic behavior we would engage in if we were faced with a terrible scenario like the Nielsons. But to forgive someone is quite possibly the most difficult thing in the world. To accept that the outside of our facade is only a glimpse of our true self is also incredibly formidable. To be truly honest with each other is almost excruciating.

So, Nielsons, I am so happy that you have held on to your love. Thank you for showing me what real fairytale love is like.

Help Resolve Get Senate Sponsors for Family-Building Bill

One of the big efforts of Resolve’s Advocacy Day was that an actual bill was introduced into Senate by Senator Gillibrand of NY. The bill needs our support to get co-sponsors.

Here’s the deal:

A bill to create a tax credit for the out-of-pocket costs associated with infertility medical treatment has been introduced in the U.S. Senate by Senator Kirsten Gillibrand (NY). Aptly named the Family Act of 2011, S 965, this bill will potentially help thousands of people seek medical treatment that otherwise would be out of reach for them.

Please go here and click on this link to contact your Senator and ask for support. It’s an easy form to fill out. You can add your own personal message.

Here’s what I chose to say:

I am part of the 1 in 8 people in America dealing with infertility. My husband and I are proud Americans who only wanted to be able to raise the next generation of involved, caring citizens. Instead, we were diagnosed with infertility and spent two and a half years and tens of thousands of dollars until we were lucky enough to have our miracle twins via IVF. We were fortunate enough to have the favorable insurance and family financial resources available to pursue treatments, but so many wonderful people I know who would be incredible parents of wonderful citizens can’t because of a lack of financial resources.

America is about equal opportunities for all, and I think building the next generation of citizens should be a priority for this country. Infertility affects so many and it is a disease, according to WHO.

The Family Act would help so many deserving people who would love to pursue their dreams of creating their own families, but can’t because of a lack of funds. I hope that you consider this Bill a priority. So many of your constituents are suffering from this silent disease. It would mean so much to us all for this support.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Jjiraffe

I hope you have the opportunity to sign this form. If you do, can you do me a favor and just write in the comments whether you did so I can keep track?

Thanks so much! Go us!

The Journey

“Life only really has one beginning and one end, and the rest is just a whole lot of middle.”  Will Shuester, Glee

I finally finished the first season of Glee.  I have had my ups and downs with the show: my main complaint has been the series features the same story lines over and over.  The Glee club members finally achieve some success, then get slushies thrown in their faces.  Will manages to scrape together some resources to help the club, then Sue yanks them away.  There have been a few really grand moments, like Rachel singing “Don’t Rain on My Parade”, but for every grand moment there are a million failures and battles to win just an inch of acceptance.

Finally, the season finale featured a really unusual storyline: a rapid approach of failure and the end of dreams.  The Glee Club is going to shut down, the members who found acceptance and talents and joy are getting those things taken away from them.  In the face of this scenario, the Glee Club teacher gives a speech.  Life is a JOURNEY.  There’s a lot of middle before we die.  But:

“Who cares what happens when we get there, when the getting-there has been so much fun?”

I cried and cried during this speech.  I wasn’t sure why it affected me so much.  Then I realized why.

Glee is a metaphor for life.  Life is a bunch of the same battles over and over.  Life is getting a little success before you get a slushie thrown in your face.  If you’re lucky, you find an outlet, whether your job, a hobby or a talent that provides some camaraderie and glory in a tough world.

Then I realized it: the blogosphere is my Glee Club.

Here, I have people who understand my struggles.  Here I get to do what I love: write.  Sometimes I’ll hit a high G, more likely I’ll blow at least a few sour notes.  And, doh: Glee is another word for Joy.  No wonder I’ve been so obsessed with the show.

I have said a few times, I think, that I learn more from my commenters than from anyone else.  I think that’s why I pose so many questions: I know you guys will have the answers.  I have been so touched by what people have said in answer to yesterday’s post:

From Maura:

“Do I think you should continue to try and seek joy? Absolutely! I think we all should – but I also don’t think you should feel guilty if you don’t find the positive in every single situation. For lack of better words, life sometimes sucks.”

From Bodega Bliss:

“And I think the day you stop seeking joy would be a very sad and very dark day. Don’t ever stop seeking joy. Joy is why we get up in the morning. Joy is why we fight the battles we do. Please don’t stop.”

And finally, from Stumbling Gracefully:

Maybe it shouldn’t be just about the joyful things, but about your journey to joy. Or your journey in search of joy and how elusive that joy can be. I think exploring why you find being joyful difficult is just as valuable as achieving it easily. In fact I would say it is more productive, because many people struggle to find joy in their lives and interestingly, it’s usually the people who have very much (like you and I) that struggle the most with that. Those people (like me) would find your journey very enlightening.

Life IS a journey.  We are in the middle.  Thank you, everyone, for being here for me.  It is here, in this world, that I have experienced true Glee.  I have had a few big moments in my life, like Rachel’s “Rain on My Parade”, but every day for the last year, I have been able to joke around, sing, cry and laugh with you.  And it’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.

So I hope that you will continue with me on The Journey.

How Do You Maintain Your Blog’s Focus?

Back in the day when traditional media ruled, if writers wanted an audience, they were contributors to magazines and newspapers. In order to get stories published and distributed to an audience, writers would go through a pretty stringent editing process. Beyond the fact-checking and grammatical proofreading, usually an editor would ask the question: “Is this a Vogue feature?” “Does this profile work for Forbes?” or “Is this story about teen fashion edgy enough for Sassy?”

Each outlet would have a tone, purpose and mission which the writer would need to adapt to, a uniformity to assume. The Economist doesn’t even give bylines, that’s how uniform its editorial is.

Blogging changed the game. Now any writer has the ability to write about what they want, and an audience could find them. The blogger could set the focus of his/her writing.

But with an audience comes a certain amount of pressure. You might feel an obligation to tell a certain type of story over and over. I saw a comment by Wordgirl on Stirrup Queens asking whether she felt like she was James Taylor wanting to play new songs, with an audience constantly yelling “Fire and Rain!” Do you feel an obligation to keep your focus narrow? Do you feel an obligation to please your readers? Or do you simply write what you want?

If you’ve been reading my blog, you probably know that there’s an undercurrent here. I chose to call out This House is Now a Home about an audience sensitivity issue. I did this because I had a Mother Bear reaction. I have become quite protective of the feelings of my friends going through infertility, and some were hurt by the essay.

I really have been enlightened by the feedback from Kate, my readers and her readers. My hope is that the discussion made people more sensitive on all fronts. (Me included.) My fear is that I went against my own feelings (stated “editorially”, many times, in many places): be supportive of all mothers and try to bring more joy into my life and inspire others to do so. Maura called me out on this. I even say in my bio to “feel free to keep me honest” if I’m not living joyfully. Well, she did. And she has a point.

Here’s where I am on my big mission of 2011: a little disillusioned. Living joyfully every day may be “the good work, the sweet work”, but damn if it’s not difficult for me. I also have a total bugaboo about being authentic. How can you be authentic about feeling joy if it’s such hard work to get there? I still think it’s possible.

But infertility seems to have taken away my ability to look at any given situation in a purely positive light. I don’t know why: I have children, I’ve crossed the finish line. Darcy doesn’t get it either: he doesn’t want to talk about infertility anymore. (And he was totally annoyed he had to film my NIAW video for Resolve.) Maybe I have some strain of Irish melancholic gene, maybe I see the world the way it is, maybe I have taken on the pain of my friends. I don’t know. This post makes me feel less alone about my feelings of both joy and pain.

I think the best way to take action about the pain and agony infertility causes is for me to be an activist, work with Resolve, and do the March Walk of Dimes next year. Those are action items with a real purpose: items that genuinely can help us win the fight against infertility and pre-maturity.

All of you who have dealt with infertility, however you are dealing with it: you have my most upmost respect.

What makes you feel joyful? Do you think I should continue to try to seek joy? Have you ever wanted to change the tone or focus of your blog?

Tina Fey, and My First Job

Like every other woman over the age of 30, I have been reading Tina Fey’s “Bossypants”. She somehow writes her way through deadly minefields (breastfeeding, working moms, being a boss, Sarah Palin, theater geeks and cruise ships), and comes through not only unscathed, but triumphantly witty. She’s a treasure.

My favorite part of the book is about the dead-end job she took in Chicago to pay for improv classes. She was a receptionist at a particularly grim YMCA. She worked terrible hours so her workplace became her whole world. In this world, she only had a few romantic interests: Eli, a guy “with no shoulders” who strung her along, a YMCA “guest” who gave her a box of SweeTarts, two used Linda Ronstandt tapes, and a note attached that said, “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?” (“Needless to say, we married in the spring.”) And a sixty-something toothless mail room guy who she tried to strike up a rapport with in lonely desperation. (He repaid the favor by telling her co-workers that the two of them were doing the nasty.)

It reminded me of how important my first real job was to me, and how it became my whole world. I was an account coordinator at a
big PR agency, and I treated the job as seriously as a heart attack. If those press kits weren’t finished in time for the conference, LIVES
would be lost. And the clients were ALWAYS right. One of my poor colleagues was given the assignment of trying to drum up publicity for a THIRD edition of a boring technical book on coding at some junket. Whereas many would just dump the pile of press releases in
the nearest garbage can and pretend they had been “distributed”, this earnest friend actually approached real-live journalists with the stapled, carefully worded documents heralding the earth-shattering news of JavaCoding 3: The Reckoning.

At the same time, there was a real sense of comraderie there, and the president of the company was a really smart guy who gave lots
of yoda-like advice that I remember to this day. My favorite bits:

1. Lying is for energetic people. Telling the truth is for the lazy. It’s much easier.
2. Clients won’t remember the time you got them on the front page of The New York Times, but they will remember the time your directions got them stuck on a one-way street in Framingham, Massachusetts.

What was your first real job, and did you love it or hate it?

When People You Know Are Sexpots Who Do Good Works

I had a friend in college… (I wonder how many stories around the world begin with those five words) who was an enigma wrapped in a cipher. I owe this lady of mystery many epic adventures: like “The Tuesday Night We Were Bored and Decided to Drive Seven Hours to Vegas, Because, Why Not?”, “The Night the Movie Star Dorkus Got Us Kicked Out of the Roxbury” and finally: “The Night We Saw GNR Play the Rose Bowl”. It was the 90s in Southern California, and just to complete the signs of the time: she also was a featured player in 90210 episodes and an Ahnold film. (He was NOT the dorkus, in case you were wondering. Think younger.)

What I’m saying is she’s way cool. She is now making her mark by appearing nude (sorta) for a good cause. She looks awesome. And please feel free to contribute to her cause: by purchasing a Nudie Foodie book, which will be available soon through blurb.com. All profits will be donated to a charity committed to the Japan relief effort.

I could be jealous (and remember those guys who dated me, but were really interested in her), but mostly I think: Bravo! How awesome you have the guts to do that. (And look that good.)

Questions that can’t be answered: why was I wearing WHITE socks in that picture?! And why were my pants so darned high-waisted? Oh, well. 90s fashion.

Do you have any friends who are trailblazers in a way you admire?

When Infertility Survivors Forget What It’s Like

Infertility is a horrific experience to go through. I believe that everyone who goes through the experience, whether they need to take Clomid or go through multiple IVF attempts or adoption is a survivor. Some survivors become parents (through treatments, adoption) and go on that much-hallowed (by society) journey of parenting. Some become parents, and lose their much-loved children too early.

Mother’s Day is not the simple milestone that it used to be to me before I began trying to have children. I understand now that there are mothers who are not acknowledged. There are women who wanted to be mothers, or are mothers, but not to living children. I can’t speak for them, but I can try to stand beside them on Mother’s Day, because it is a difficult day for many. The outside world for the most part doesn’t get that.

Maybe some infertility survivors don’t consider themselves “survivors” or want to distance themselves from the land of IF. There is one blogger who has been put on my radar recently. I’ll let her speak for herself about her voyage to parenthood:

“It’s hard to believe that our blog has turned into an infertility story. We started it in March 2009 when we threw the birth control pills out the window and decided to start a family, thinking that it would be a fun way to chronicle our pregnancy and the adventures we would have raising babies together. Little did we know that we’d take an unexpected emotional detour before we got to that point.”

This blogger was made famous recently, because the video of her positive pregnancy test (which is very sweet) became a big deal in the media. What was not made a big deal? The positive pregnancy test was after her experience with infertility. I feel like a teachable moment about how hard infertility is to go through was lost, but I don’t blame the blogger for that. Her story was quite clear. The media did not mention it.

What is not cool to me is what the blogger recently wrote about Mother’s Day.

What was said:

She mentions she was pregnant last Mother’s Day: “But now that he’s out of that safe little bubble I can tell you: I may have been a mother then, but I didn’t really know what it meant to be a mother until now.”

First off, I think this language is hurtful. It seems to indicate that those who lose their children because they were born too early don’t know what it means to be a mother. When I read an essay like this, I know this is not true.

“I am a different person than I was before Owen was born. A better person. A more understanding and more thoughtful person. A simpler person who stops working so hard to check things off my to do list and instead stops to enjoy and savor every little teeny tiny moment with my ever-changing baby. A gentler person who can cuddle and rock and pat and hold long after my arms are tired or my legs want to collapse. A more patient person. A more present person, adept at focusing 100% on what I’m doing at a given moment, whether it’s work or playing or blogging or cooking, and not thinking about what I’m going to do next. A more organized person, though I didn’t think that was possible (oh she of the bulleted to do lists and pre-packed lunches), who can now organize an entire family without even thinking.”

This is the standard Hallmark script, which I feel demeans a lot of people. To become a “better person”, you must become a mother. To become a more patient, gentle person, you must become a mother.

“It feels like I have finally come into the person I always wanted to be. As Owen’s Mom, I am more me than I have ever been before.

Happy Mother’s Day… to me.”

I’m happy that her journey led her to a happy place. I’m also pretty sure that she didn’t mean to hurt people with this essay, but she did.

Do you think that those who have gone through infertility owe it to the community to be sensitive after they get through “the finish line”? Or is it their right to move on and embrace the standard story of motherhood? Can you do both? And I honestly want to know! What is your opinion?

Sponsored Post: I Get a Psychic Reading

I know how some people feel about sponsored posts by bloggers, so feel free to skip over this at any time, but: I was offered a free psychic reading from www.psychicsource.com and because I have so many questions about what’s going on in my life right now, I snapped it up.

I don’t have much experience with psychics. Once, when I was having my first miscarriage, Darcy bought me a massage at a fancy spa. The woman giving the massage (I was not talking, so as not to cry) suddenly told me that she had information to give me, and she hoped I didn’t mind. She said she could tell I was in a lot of pain, but there was a female baby that would enter my life. She told me that I was meant to be a mother of a daughter. It was really weird, because I hadn’t said anything about my m/c at all. And, our RE had told us our chances of us having a girl were really low. Our daughter is the first girl on Darcy’s side of the family for 60 years.

The second experience was from a Halloween party Darcy and I hosted once. To make it fun, we hired a fortune teller. We got our fortunes told together. She said she saw us having one birth only. (She did not specify how many babies.) And she gave this odd pronouncement, very like the Voldemort/Harry Potter prophecy: she saw neither one of us surviving the other. This scares me, and makes me afraid to fly on planes together.

Now I feel like I’m at a crossroads with my life, and there were some questions I wanted to ask.

I called the number, and when I heard that there was a psychic called Lorelei available, I chose her, because I love “The Gilmore Girls”

Here’s what I asked and what she answered:

1. Will I have any more children?

She didn’t see me “birthing” any more children, but thought there might be a slight chance of adoption, although probably not based on upcoming life choices.

2. I didn’t specify what I did, but I said that I was unsure where my career was headed and wondered if she had any insight.

She said what I do now is very, very difficult and painful for me personally.

She said I had two decent choices. One was an easy choice, and one was a harder choice that would involve many twists and turns, but would provide me with much happiness.

3. I told her there was a difficult family relationship I was dealing with. Did she see any way through it?

She stated that there was a way through it, but it would be physically and emotionally exhausting, and involved an overhaul of how everyone communicated with this person (and how they communicated with us).

4. I told her I was tired all the time. Was there anything she recommended to improve this?

She told me my muscles were not relaxing properly because of the amount of stress I was under and recommended that I buy moonstones, hold them in my hand for 5-10 minutes before sleep, then put them under the pillow. She laughed and said this was a Dr. Phil thing to say, but she does it and it works. She also recommended that I write down what was bothering me on a piece of paper and burn it.

5. Finally I asked the morbid question about being a widow, since I’m nervous about the Voldemort prophecy.

She told me she doesn’t like answering this question, because she doesn’t want to affect people living their lives in fear of something happening to their partner. But she wanted to tell me that she could tell that my husband was a “good guy”, really sweet, a true partner who shares responsibilities and that I was lucky. Most of her clients don’t have this kind of relationship.  She said she could tell that we love each other very much and although we would have ups and downs, our love would only grow for each other.

Lots of food for thought…

When I Grow Up to Be A…

I have parents who did what they loved for a living. If you have read enough of my posts, you’ll gather that my father was a pretty successful writer. My mom did soul-satisfying work for non-profits and now writes award-winning poetry. I grew up in a creative household, with a heavy focus on reading the classics, pursuing arts like ballet, piano and riding and academic excellence was a must. The area in which we lived is one of the wealthiest counties in the country, and quite possibly the world’s most materialistic area. I’ve been to New York City, lived in London, spent quite a bit of time in the O.C., and yet I still feel quite comfortable with that statement.

I went to both private and public schools over the years. At the private school, kids would line up at the curbside and note whose mother had what kind of car. My mom’s Subaru station wagon didn’t quite hack it. While my parents made a decent living, most of my peers had much more money. (And were quite flashy with it.) This lack of material goods on my part made me feel inadequate. I vowed at a young age to pursue a practical form of living that would pay well.

I did my best, and worked for many years at various corporate jobs, and I was quite good at this work. If lucrative pay was my goal, I should have entered the banking world. My pay, while pretty decent, didn’t rate high enough for the job satisfaction, which was low.

I also think I was just downright intimidated to pursue the family business. I kept my love of writing a secret. It’s relatively easy to become a corporate hack. The odds of becoming a successful writer run about even with the chances of becoming a successful actor. Or, 1%. Then, my brother turned his hand to fiction. He’s getting his M.F.A. in Creative Writing, and has been published. He’s also the next Denis Johnson. And I’m not just saying that. You can read him here, and form your own opinion. WARNING: graphic content.

My father told me once that writing is about one thing: rejection. I used to be awful at that. But I am around people who question my every move and discourage many actions I take. At first (and by at first, I mean for many years) I was cowed and depressive. But now I realize this criticism has formed a sort of hard callus around my soul, and it has given my ambition wings. I finally made that NIAW video for Resolve, and put my face into the world of mean people and trolls, because I realized I’m tougher now: I can take the taunts. I’m stronger.

CookedHeads, my go-to-guru, posted this today, along with a great quote from Ira Glass (and graphic I hope she doesn’t mind if I reuse):

I am jjiraffe, and I want to be a writer. I need to work harder and accept rejection.

Let’s Bust Some Myths, and A Piñata!

When Resolve put out a call for bloggers to “Bust a Myth” about infertility, the immediate image that came to my mind was: what if I literally busted apart a piñata shaped as a uterus while busting some knowledge?

I think the idea came from the very satisfying scene in “Valentine’s Day” where Jennifer Garner cracks open that piñata of a heart after getting her own heart broken. My own heart has been broken by my reproductive organs. Repeatedly.

I’m an infertility survivor. And in my opinion, there are many myths that need to be busted around the subject. I am going to target ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE, which is the cause of much personal misery to those going through infertility. Since the public doesn’t know the facts about infertility, or the STATISTICAL EVIDENCE, they trot out stories: about distant friends, relatives, frankly, mythical people, who “overcame” infertility through Tahitian vacations.

One of the things big corporations used to pay me for was to write FAQs, to answer “Frequently Answered Questions”. I think it’s time I wrote one to scatter some infertility anecdotes into the wind. Feel free to share my video and this post with your relatives and friends when they start with the stories. Let’s fight myths with facts.

MY TOP THREE MYTHS ABOUT INFERTILITY

1. Isn’t it true that if you relax, you’re more likely to get pregnant?

The latest evidence suggests otherwise. A large-scale review of fourteen studies, which followed 3,583 women who were diagnosed as infertile and were going through a cycle of fertility treatment, concluded that emotional distress (defined as stress and tension) did NOT affect whether the woman became pregnant or not. (footnote 1). Many infertility problems are caused by physical, anatomical and immunological issues (like low ovarian reserve, blocked fallopian tubes, lack of ovulation, low sperm count, birth defects related to both male and female anatomy), which could not be aided by a lack of stress anyway. (footnote 2).

2. Why don’t you just adopt?

Adopting is wonderful way to add to your family. It is also much more expensive, difficult and time consuming than most people know. Domestic and international adoption can cost in excess of $30,000 and take many years. The outcome is also uncertain: birthmothers may change their minds, foreign countries could change their policies. The truth is many families don’t have the financial resources to fund an adoption (footnote 3)

3. IVF works every time!

Nope. Not even close. Depending on varying factors, the statistical chance of success in a single cycle of IVF is between 30-45%. That means the chance of FAILURE is 55-70%! (footnote 4)

For more information, please go here. For more information on “myth-busting”, go here.

The Royals And Bullying: Two Subjects Not Related?

Stupid WordPress/Blogger issues!! I asked some of my favorite bloggers to add the Name/URL function because for some reason, my WordPress identity is not accepted on Open ID even after weeks of troubleshooting with WordPress. (Blogger won’t give me the time of day.)

Unfortunately, this fix enables the anonymous function, which, as we all know, can attract unwelcome elements. I feel awful, because apparently that’s exactly what has happened to one of my favorite bloggers. And then, Mel wrote a particularly timely post today about the Internet’s nasty underbelly.

All I really have to add is: WHAT’S WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!?!?!

Now I’d like to talk about the Royal Wedding. When I lived in London, I once worked with the staff of a Brit royal (can’t say who) very, very briefly during a conference I helped publicize. I like this royal a lot.

I’m also pretty sure my former boss will be at the wedding. I feel somewhat connected to this wedding, I’m saying. Invested. I also really, really wish right now I still lived in London. I’m sure my friends who still live there are complaining about the tax dollars and acting totally blasé (which is the cool thing to do) but if I was still there, I’d probably be camping out for the best spot on the parade route. UPDATED *I actually Facebooked some of them and they are all using the national holiday to get out of town. “No one cares about the wedding,” I was told. Not too surprising. Most of the Londoners we knew thought the Royals “were for tourists.”*

This wasn’t always the case. I just watched “The King’s Speech” and it painted quite an admirable picture of King George. It was a strange thing to discover that one of the richest and most privileged men ever alive was a victim of systemic (and horrific) bullying: at one point, he admitted his nanny didn’t feed him enough for years, because she favored his older brother. I love stories about people of ordinary or sub-ordinary talents rising above them when they need to for the good of others. King George was a Neville Longbottom, a shy man with a speech impediment who had been tormented his whole life, but he was able to rouse his country when they needed it most, with his greatest weakness, his speaking ability.

So anonymous bullies and cowards, shut up. In the name of Neville Longbottom and King George, I command you.

Now let’s all enjoy the Royal Wedding. I can’t wait to see Princess Kate’s gown!

Reflections on Being Surrounded By Barbra Streisands

Barbra Streisand is a go-to joke in my immediate family.  My father was flown down to interview her in L.A., during her publicity rounds for “The Mirror Has Two Faces”.   My father had interviewed many famous people at that point in his career, including a President of the United States.  He loves to tell us that no one kept him waiting longer than BARBRA.

Here’s his first-hand account:

“I flew down to Beverly Hills Sunday to catch an evening screening of Streisand’s new movie, `The Mirror Has Two Faces.’ The following day I waited around until after 11 p.m., even though the interview was scheduled for 6 p.m.

There was an eight-minute video about the filming of the movie that played continually in the room where journalists slumped, awaiting the golden summons to a one-on-one with Barbra. I watched it dozens of times, committing many lines to memory, before thinking to disable the machine when no one looked.

Great consternation when the sabotage was discovered. But then we got to watch ‘Monday Night Football,’ ‘Murphy Brown,’ ‘Melrose Place’ and other diversions.”

My family is extremely WASP-y.  I can say that without being disrespectful, I hope.  I grew up believing: You never keep anyone waiting, you need to be polite, you couch your opinions carefully, you don’t hurt people’s feelings.

I’ve been watching the first season of “Glee”, and honestly, I’ve been on the fence about it.  Until the episode entitled “Sectionals”.  Rachel Berry, the Barbra Streisand-ish character on the show, described as “wanting everything too much”, sings a Barbra Streisand song.  The song is “Don’t Rain on My Parade”. Lea Michele rocks the hell out of that song.  I thought about the song, a lot, over the last couple of days.

The lyrics might as well state the opinions of most of those who surround me now: they have an incredibly different philosophy than the ethos I grew up with.  I think their philosophy might well be summed up by this song.  It’s a scrappy, life-consuming song.  Here are the lyrics:

Don’t tell me not to live,
Just sit and putter,
Life’s candy and the sun’s
A ball of butter.
Don’t bring around a cloud
To rain on my parade!
Don’t tell me not to fly–
I’ve simply got to.
If someone takes a spill,
It’s me and not you.
Who told you you’re allowed
To rain on my parade!
I’ll march my band out,
I’ll beat my drum,
And if I’m fanned out,
Your turn at bat, sir.
At least I didn’t fake it.
Hat, sir, I guess I didn’t make it!
But whether I’m the rose
Of sheer perfection,
Or freckle on the nose
Of life’s complexion,
The cinder or the shiny apple of its eye,
I gotta fly once,
I gotta try once,
Only can die once, right, sir?
Ooh, life is juicy,
Juicy, and you see
I gotta have my bite, sir!
Get ready for me, love,
cause I’m a commer,
I simply gotta march,
My heart’s a drummer.
Don’t bring around a cloud
To rain on my parade!

I’m gonna live and live now,
Get what I want–I know how,
One roll for the whole show bang,
One throw, that bell will go clang,
Eye on the target and wham
One shot, one gun shot, and BAM
Hey, Mister Armstein,
Here I am!
I’ll march my band out,
I will beat my drum,
And if I’m fanned out,
Your turn at bat, sir,
At least I didn’t fake it.
Hat, sir, I guess I didn’t make it.
Get ready for me, love,
’cause I’m a commer,
I simply gotta march,
My heart’s a drummer.
Nobody, no, nobody
Is gonna rain on my parade!

My greatest fault (I have many) is that I am a perfectionist. I don’t want to say anything unless I amaze the room.  And I never do.  I can’t imagine believing that I had the right to fly – and that I simply have to.  In order to fly, much preparation would need to take place, and many people would need to approve. But this is B.S.

This is all an excuse as to my I haven’t posted my NIAW post yet.  I want to amaze the room with my words, but the truth is: I probably won’t.  I don’t have the golden voice of Lea Michele.  I don’t have the warrior spirit of Keiko.  I have not the eloquence of Stirrup Queens.  Or Stumbling Grace.

But, I’ve realized, that’s OK.  I don’t have to be perfect in order to take my turn at the bat. And yes, that’s a clue as to what my NIAW post will be about.