A Day Late and a Dollar Short

Actually, this journal entry is more like two weeks late. I didn’t intend to go so long before updating, but since returning from my trip last weekend, I keep getting sidetracked by pesky chores like sleeping. And bathing. And feeding my children. So thanks to those of you who have waited patiently, checked in for updates, and didn’t abandon me entirely for the numerous other bloggers out there who are funnier, smarter, and update in a much more timely manner. I can only assume those other bloggers don’t get sidetracked as easily as I do --- as indicated by the fact I’ve sat down three times today to write this update, and wound up a) shopping at the mall for an Easter dress, b) wrapping presents, and c) watching an episode of The Naked Brothers Band with the kids.

I had to go back and read my own updates for the past two weeks, to remember just where I left off in the fertility/adoption chronicles. It was August of 1997, Brayden was six months old, I had just found out I was pregnant, and the adoption was still held up in the courts, but the judge in our case had agreed that I could take my “foster baby” across state lines and join Blaine. We were hoping the case would be settled and we could return to OK to finalize the adoption in just a few months. In the meantime, I was eager to get her to California and start our “real” life, as opposed to the first six months, when we were living out of a suitcase at my parents’ house.

So, that’s what I did. I loaded up my car with all the baby things and drove half-way cross country. Since making a 24-hour drive with a 6-month old in the car wasn’t my idea of fun ….. plus the car was so overloaded with all the crap we had accumulated I would have had to put her and her carseat on top of the car, a la the grandmother in Chevy Chase’s Vacation, AND considering I was only about six weeks pregnant, and had to stop every few hours to use the bathroom …. and nap ... we thought a smarter option might be for my sister to fly with Brayden to Los Angeles. Good thing, since it wound up taking me three days to make the drive. By the time I got there, my sister was already gone again. But at long last, Blaine, Brayden and I were living together as a family.

It was ………… mostly good. I mean, of course it was good-great-fabulous because we had waited so long for this day. But it was tainted a little, I have to admit, by the cloud of the court case hanging over our heads. There was a lot of adjusting to be done; Blaine and I had lived apart for over six months. Despite having bitched and moaned endlessly about being stuck with my parents that entire time, and never having any space or privacy, I missed them and felt homesick. It was perplexing … when I was in OKC, I was homesick for Blaine and California. Once I finally got to California, I was homesick for OKC. Seriously, I was a nut-job and had no idea what would make me happy.

Slowly but surely I was coming to terms with my VERY unplanned pregnancy. But I still hated all the ignorant comments I got from people who either knew about the adoption (“See? It always happens that way!”) or who had no idea about the adoption (“Heh-heh, haven’t you two figured out what causes that yet?”) It was incredibly ironic, to go from long-time fertility patient, to having a baby and one on the way, all in the space of six months. I felt very unsettled; as if I had finally found my identity, only for it to shift on me again and again. Simply put, Blaine and I had been knocked for a loop, and I was having trouble getting my legs back under me again. I would whine and complain about how “this wasn’t how I planned it” --- and then I would have an overwhelming desire to smack myself in the face with a blunt object because HOW DARE I complain? We finally, at long last, had the beautiful, perfect baby we always wanted, and I had the nerve to gripe because everything wasn’t perfect???? (I don’t know if Prozac was on the market yet, but perhaps I should have investigated that possibility.)

Within a month of me and Brayden moving back into our rental property, where Blaine had been living alone (or as alone as you can be with two dogs) we packed up and moved to historic base housing. Historic being code for “old and scabby”. This was in a skanky part of southern California. We lived next door to a drug rehab facility, were just a few miles from the harbor, and frequently heard gunshots at night. It was an ugly, scary neighborhood and I never felt comfortable there. I never felt comfortable in any part of Los Angeles, period. I was lonely. I didn’t know any of my neighbors. Just like in Oklahoma, I found myself filling up the days by taking Brayden to the mall and pushing her around in her stroller. And since I was pregnant, stopping almost daily at Auntie Anne’s pretzels and eating two jumbo garlic and parmesan cheese pretzels with a large Coke to wash them down with. No, I have no idea why I gained so much weight, do you?

Brayden and I moved to California in August. August turned into September, which turned into October. And we received word we had won the court case. Then received word there was an appeal. So we were still waiting, and still weren’t allowed to adopt the daughter that had been with us since birth.

Thank the Lord above that by then, I had made two friends in this town. One was a fellow military wife, and the other was a “local” I met at MOPS. Not that we did a lot together, but I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t had the two of them to at least fill up *some* of my days, I might have gone insane. I was really unhappy. I kept telling myself that I simply hated L.A. To be honest, it’s not my kind of town. Too big, too many people, too dirty. I am a suburbs kind of girl … preferably surrounded by farmland. I hated how crowded everything was; how much traffic; how everyone but me spoke another language. Blaine was unhappy, too. He’s not a city kind of guy, either. Hunting is his favorite hobby, and there, well, freeway road-rage shootings don’t count. He said he felt suffocated by all the people. How can you feel claustrophobic when on one side of you, as far as the eye can see, is the Pacific Ocean? Yet we did.

We told ourselves that our problem was L.A. itself. Our neighborhood was scary. Our yard had a eight-foot chain link fence with rolled barbed wire at the top, and we often found random items --shoes, batteries -- people from the drug rehab behind us had chucked into our backyard. I worried for the dogs and didn’t feel safe going outside with Brayden. So I hibernated in the house. A lot. And got pasty, in addition to fat. A few months after we moved out of our rental property, into the "historic" base housing, which we thought was scary, there was a home-invasion robbery and murder in our old neighborhood. I just never felt safe or comfortable. And did I mention I was lonely? Seriously, if it hadn’t been for my two friends Cathy and Annie, I might have never gone anywhere but the mall and the pretzel shop. It was hot. I was pregnant. There was no air conditioning in either of our houses.

Looking back, I was probably clinically depressed. The only saving grace, and I mean only, besides those two friends, was Brayden. She was the most wonderful, amazing baby. Ever. She was perfectly content to spend all day at home with me, going from bouncer-sizer to blanket on the floor to bouncy seat to swing to bathtub to a walk in her stroller. She slept well, she napped well, she ate well. And because I had nothing else going on in my life, I doted on her. I loved her more and more with every passing day. And with every passing day, I was more and more terrified of losing her.

And that was the crux of our problem. It wasn’t Los Angeles. It wasn’t the crime, or the car-jackings, or the gangs, or the graffiti, or the Santa Anna winds, or the pollution, or the disgusting fish taco stands on every corner. It was that our own heads weren’t clear, and instead of facing our fear, we blamed our surroundings. Los Angeles will go down in history as the suckiest place we ever lived, where I was a miserable human being, but I do at least acknowledge it was *partly* because of my attitude. (And partly because of all that other shit.)



Halloween came and went.

Thanksgiving came and went.




Christmas came and went.


I spent more time at the mall; ate more pretzels, and got bigger and bigger with my pregnancy.



Brayden’s first birthday came and went.


We were still waiting to hear final word on the court case.


And finally, my due date with Kellen came.




And went.

And went a little bit more.

That kid would STILL be in there, given the chance.

Nine years ago today, on March 24, 1998, my doctor gave up hope that my body would EVER go into spontaneous labor, and ordered me to the hospital for an all-night application of cervical softening agent, hoping that would do the trick and I would go into labor.




I was so nervous I didn’t sleep all night in the hospital. I hadn’t slept much, or well, the night before, either. The doctor said it came down to this: I was ten days past my due date. I hadn’t had a single contraction. I wasn’t dilated, or effaced. I was not in any kind of crises mode, but my placenta was the consistency of an old sponge, and it was time for the baby to come out. So if the cervical ripening gel didn’t work, we would induce labor the next morning.

It didn’t. And so we did.

I'm Not Only Important, But I'm Very Very Busy As Well.

I have a good friend named Lisa who I have known for almost twenty years. She and her husband are a military couple, like us, and they have three kids, also like us. Their kids are a few years older than ours, and I remember when her youngest started school full-time … the same year my *oldest* started school full time. I remember asking Lisa if she was excited to have her days to herself, if she planned to go back to work, and what she hoped to do with all that free time on her hands.

Now, five years later, I would like to make my formal, public apology to Lisa for being such an asshat. Free time? WHAT free time? I’m amazed she didn’t reach through the phone line and smack me. I don’t know where I got the idea that being a stay at home mom meant I would actually stay at home, but that’s just crazy talk. In between the errands and running around I try to accomplish during the day so my evenings are free to spend with my family, the volunteering at the school, the chauffeuring the kids to and from all their activities, and the projects and hobbies I like to do, things are busier than when I worked. Of course, back when I worked full-time I didn’t have kids, so obviously that’s a slanted statement. And don’t get me wrong -- I’m not complaining. I LOVE my life and I choose, every single day, to fill up each 24 hour period with things that are important to me. Sure, some of them I enjoy more than others (like meeting a friend for lunch, or hanging out with the other moms at soccer practice) and some are not as enjoyable, but this is my way of life and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I take full responsibility for the choices I’ve made and for the way Blaine and I have worked out our priorities, and overall, am extremely happy with the way I spend my time.

Now, all that is to say, the only thing more obnoxious than people who don’t update their blogs, are people who whine about not having time to update their blogs. While I’m certainly not above whining, there’s no doubt I do it far too much. So, no whining today. Just the facts: since arriving home Monday night from my scrapbooking weekend, things have been hectic. “Dog at the vets van in the shop unpacking volunteering at school bunco with friends help with homework lunch with friends dry cleaners library do ebay lunch with the kids doctors appointment with Blaine soccer practice soccer pictures orthodontist appointment getting the passport photos done fundraiser night at the pizza parlor” kind of busy. It’s all fun; it’s all happy; it’s all good.

Except for the fact, my point is, that these fun activities have kept me from the computer the past three days and I’m going through blog withdrawals. Who am I to complain about not having a laptop when I can’t even sit my fat ass down at my regular computer this week unless its to tweak the 426 photos I took of my girlfriend, or download and copy all the photos I took at the Valentines Dance and give to the librarian for the end of year slide show, or obsessively search the web for a center console for our van that can be delivered in time for our vacation next month so Kendrie can quit whining about not having any place to set her drink, or for the perfect black ear muffs for our vacation this summer who cares if it’s still three months away I need ear muffs damnit and I *WILL* find them!

And that doesn’t even encompass the 82 loads of laundry awaiting my return, which I find especially appalling considering I left three loads of clean laundry that Blaine and the kids folded and put away for me while I was gone. What’s the deal with the stinking laundry??? There are only five of us --- how do we generate so much laundry? How the heck do moms with six for seven kids keep up? Or Ma Walton, who not only had eight or nine kids (I’m not sure exactly how many kids because I didn’t really watch that show a lot, I was more of a Little House on the Prairie kind of gal) but she also had to beat the clothes against a rock in a stream or something. I mean good grief, I have a big shiny machine that swishes the clothes around in soapy warm water, and then wrings them out, and another big shiny machine that tosses and tumbles them amidst hot air and good-smelling fabric softener sheets until they are dried. It’s not like laundry is THAT labor-intensive, yet it still seems to suck all the free time out of my day ---- CAN ANYONE EXPLAIN THIS MYSTERY TO ME????

OK, now I’m exhausted just thinking about all that laundry.

Now, my point is (I know, I said that several paragraphs ago but got off on that laundry tangent) I have every intention of continuing with the infertility/adoption/surrogacy tale, just not tonight. Tomorrow night, for sure. Well, shit, tomorrow night Kendrie has a soccer game and I’m totally dying to see the premier episode of Dancing with the Stars that Blaine taped for me while I was gone …. *hopefully* tomorrow night, for sure. Or maybe Saturday. But probably tomorrow night. Definitely. Maybe.

In the meantime, I leave you with a funny story involving me and the laundry that never dies. One of my pet peeves is when my kids (no specific names mentioned :cough: Brayden :cough: Kendrie :cough: ) pull their socks off and put them in the laundry basket twisted inside out. Now that Brayden is doing her own laundry it’s not such a big deal because her inside out socks are her problem. But Kendrie still does it to almost every pair and it makes me crazy. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she does it on purpose, just to annoy me. Depending on my mood, I either charge her a quarter out of her allowance for each pair I have to fix, or make her turn them herself, or give a long-suffering sigh and just do it myself. Today, she was at school and not nearby to appreciate my sighing, so I just fixed them. I was sitting in my office chair, and I bent over and picked the socks up off the floor, turned them right side out, put them back in the laundry basket, picked up the laundry basket, and tried to stand up. Unfortunately, I have gained so much weight, and my ass is so officially huge, that the arms of my office chair stuck to my butt and I lifted the chair off the ground. At first I started laughing, then I realized, “How is this funny???? My ass is so ginormous I can carry a CHAIR around on it." That’s not funny; that’s depressing.

So. to show my ass who's boss, after soccer pictures tonight I took the kids to Sonic and bought myself a large Sonic Blast with Resee’s Peanut Butter Cups and extra chocolate syrup. And like I wasn’t ashamed enough of myself and my total lack of willpower, you know what happened next? A lady walked up to my van, and said, “Hey, you’re Kristie, aren’t you? I read your blog … I bet you’re here to buy a Diet Dr. Pepper!” And the only thing more embarrassing than having to admit the ice cream dessert the size of Montana was MINE, was the fact she walked up just in time to hear me yelling at my kids about how bratty they were being. Because nothing advertises your fabulous parenting skills like a good, loud “I don’t care if you slam your entire HEAD in it, I said leave your sister alone and SHUT THE DAMN DOOR NOW!!!”

So Dell, it was nice meeting you again. But the next time you see me at Sonic, please snatch the Blast from my fat little hand and force me to order a diet drink. Or better yet, a water. (gasp!) My giant ass will thank you.

PS. Do you realize that as long as this journal entry is, about NOTHING, except for how I’m too darn busy to type, I could have just typed what I intended to type all along??? God, I’m a moron.

I'm So Important

Flying is always an interesting activity for me. Although I don’t relish hurtling through the air in a metal tube at several hundred miles an hour, and usually spend much of the flight mentally preparing myself for a fiery/watery/quick/prolonged death, and suffering the guilt of leaving my children mother-less so I can enjoy a weekend with my girlfriends, I still take some pleasure in the business of flying. Mainly, because there is a Cinnabon in the airport, but also, I enjoy seeing the other passengers, and wondering what they’re up to. Are they flying on business? Pleasure? Vacation? Students? Military? Blaine often accuses me of staring in public. I prefer the term “People-Watching”. It sounds much less nosy, don’t you think?

What my People-Watching led me to believe this weekend, however, is the realization that I am not very important. In fact, at first glance, it appeared everyone on the planet was more important than me. A few examples:

When I fly out of Atlanta, I park in the long-term parking and take a shuttle to the terminal. The shuttle browses around the parking lot picking people up, then makes the three-minute drive to the passenger drop-off area. For the entire drive on Thursday, we had to listen to a middle-aged man harangue his mother about how the ten dollars she would save by parking in long-term parking wasn’t worth the time he was wasting driving around in a shuttle. Which led me to believe, he must be very, very important, if he doesn’t have three minutes to waste. Maybe a Congressman, or a Senator, or even the guy who makes sure the Milk Duds are evenly covered with chocolate. Although judging from his Hawaiian shirt, ponytail, and sandals, I don’t think he was a high-powered businessman on his way to a Wall Street power meeting, so maybe the Milk Dud scenario was more likely, but still; He must have been very, very important, based on his comments.

Then I got to my gate, and started People-Watching the others around me. And realized all of them were more important than me, also. That girl over there was wearing her pajamas and slippers. She must be very, very important that she didn’t even have time to put on pants or real shoes that morning. And that couple over there, in the matching argyle (and did I mention fugly?) sweaters, they must be very important as well, or they wouldn’t be dressed like the Bobbsey twins with bad facelifts, refusing to move their expensive leather carry-ons so I could step around them.

And that guy over there must be extremely important, as well, judging by the excessive techno-paraphernalia he had going on. A cell phone, a pager, and what appeared to be a Blackberry on his belt, an ipod around his neck, one of those hands-free cell phone things in his ear, and his laptop open. He was talking and typing and texting at the same time. Just how accessible is necessary? Did he think Donald Trump might call for real estate advice, and he absolutely must be available? If his co-workers need that many ways of getting ahold of him, think how important he must be! Although, I’m not so sure he was on business trip, either, considering he was wearing a t-shirt, cargo shorts, and hadn’t seen the wet end of a comb or a razor in quite some time. There I sat --- lame, boring …. With a book. A BOOK, of all things! How unimportant can I be??

Obviously the grandma who cut in front of me in our boarding line must be very important. Perhaps she thought if she sat down before me, her section of the airplane might take off and land more quickly. And the lady sitting next to me, complaining about how she couldn’t find an outlet to plug in her laptop, so she was having to use up all her battery, she must be very important, too, to be unable to turn off her laptop for the few minutes we were waiting on the flight.

About then is when it really started to get to me. The people, and there were several, who felt it necessary to make cell phone calls while boarding the plane. To let whoever was on the other end know EXACTLY.TO.THE.VERY.MINUTE. what was happening with them.

“Yep, just fixing to board.”

“Yep, just standing here in the jetway.”

“Uh-huh, just got in my seat.”

“No, I’m still in Atlanta, but we’ll be leaving in a few minutes”

“OK, they’re making the announcement I’ve got to turn my phone off now.”

“OK, I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”

And it was just as bad on the other end of the flight, when we landed:

“Yeah, we’re here in Philly now.”

“Right, we just landed.”

“OK, we’re taxiing to the gate right now.”

“I am four rows back from the exit so I should be able to get off fairly quickly.”

“They’re getting ready to open the doors and I’ll be in baggage claim in five minutes”

And that’s when it hit me. These people aren’t important --- they’re simply full of themselves. Unless you are transporting a HEART, in an ICE COOLER, and there are ambulance people waiting to drive you to the hospital so that donor heart can be transplanted into a dying person ---- then NO ONE GIVES A SHIT THAT YOU’RE TAXIING TO THE GATE!!! None of the rest of the passengers on the plane want to hear your play-by-play of how the flight went! Wait ten minutes, for Pete’s sake, until you get into the terminal and then make your oh-so-important phone call out of range of my hearing, ok? Could you do that for me???

And while you’re at it, lose ninety percent of your electronic toys, and learn to stimulate your mind with a book. It’s called READING. Before hand held games and cell phones and laptops, it’s how people used to entertain themselves. Sounds boring, I know, but give it a try, you might just like it. Or maybe I should adopt a “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” philosophy and take Kellen’s Game Boy the next time I travel, so people will think I’m important, too.

Actually, I AM important. Know how I know? Because I have friends I adore, who like me right back.



We can go months without seeing one another, although we try not to, and pick up right where we left off.




They don’t mind when I invite myself to their home to visit them, and are willing to drive to all over the East Coast with me so we can spend the weekend scrapbooking together.




They even humor my excitement when I see snow for the first time in six years.




Best of all? Best, best, bestest of all? They understand the need to stock up for a three hour drive as if we’ll never see junk food again. After all, the weathermen were predicting snow, and a lot of it. Heaven forbid we slide into a ditch or a snow bank and have to spend the weekend there. I would hate to resort to eating paper or trying to melt snow with an emergency flare, when Twizzlers, Flipz, and Whoppers are such better choices.

And by the way? We DID actually solve the rain forest issue. We also figured out a way to end world hunger (that didn’t involve Twizzlers), make alternative fuel affordable, and came up with a plan to save the endangered leatherback sea turtle. Sorry to say, the brain cells containing all this valuable information had a mysterious and unfortunate collision with :cough: amaretto :cough: and all data was lost. Suffice it to say, the sheer genius of our ideas will have to wait until the next time I get together with my girlfriends. Because you know if we can solve problems like that, we are just as important as those other people.

I think next time I fly, though, I’ll stay in my pajamas, to make it easier for the other passengers to understand how important I am, too.

PS. 95 percent of this journal entry is written in jest. Three percent of me really was annoyed with those obnoxious people on their cell phones in the airplane, and the remaining two percent was being eaten alive with a white-hot jealousy at all those other passengers and their laptops. I wouldn’t be forced to make fun of them if I had one myself, right? I have an anniversary coming up, and it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out what’s on top of my wish list.

Flattered. And a little Frightened.

Um, seriously??? I thought, like, seven people read my blog.

My mom.
My mom's two friends from high school (you know, the grown ups whose very presence keeps me from dropping the f-bomb as much as I normally would.)

A few random friends and strangers.

I just figured they hit the refresh button a lot to boost my site counter and make me feel good. (Kidding. You know you shouldn't do that, right? It incorrectly inflates the site counter AND my ego.) :)

But all those comments bowled me over. I loved hearing from you and I read every single one of them. Twice. I'm humbled and flattered, and yes, a little frightened. Because now there is all this pressure to post interesting and entertaining stories about my life, which to be honest, is not always that interesting or entertaining, unless you count the story about how when I got home last night at 9:30, Kellen had thrown his new squishy toy, a disgusting black mouse, against the ceiling in our living room and it was stuck there, and Blaine had to get a broom and his extension ladder to get it down, and this squishy black mouse left a big squishy black stain on the ceiling and Blaine pinched Kendrie's fingers in the ladder while he was throwing a hissy-fit and slamming the ladder closed because he was angry with Kellen for throwing it up there after he told him ten times not to, and he did it anyway, so Kellen was pouting and Kendrie was crying and Blaine was cranky, and I walked in the door after four days away and none of them even noticed I was back ..... ahhhhhhhhh, it's good to be missed.

But anyway, my POINT is, I just got back last night and I swear I'll post tonight, after my day of taking the dog to the vet and volunteering at the school and soccer practice tonight. Because I'm sure somewhere, somehow, there is an interesting and entertaining story about my weekend away. If you consider taking naps and gossiping with my friends to be interesting and entertaining.

For now, I need to go buy some white paint. I have a squishy black stain to cover.

A Few More Apologies

Apology #1: Today was Spring Picture Day for the first graders at Kendrie’s school. And since I never buy the spring pictures, I didn’t much care when Kendrie said she wanted to wear her Georgia Bulldogs t-shirt to school. I mean, sure, it’s a little frayed around the edges because she wears it at least once a week, or more if I’ve got the laundry caught up, and there’s that small stain on the sleeve, but again, who cares? I don’t buy the spring pictures.

I also don’t fight with my kids over clothes. At this stage in the game, I still pay for their clothes, which gives me the inalienable right to *choose* their clothing. So I can pretty much guarantee that everything in their closet is appropriate, and can allow them to pick each morning. Even if they do choose the same shirt, day after day after day. True, it might make me a little crazy, but in the long run, it just doesn’t matter.

So I didn’t care, once again, when she pulled on a pair of cargo pants with a hole in the knee. A small hole, but a hole nonetheless. Because really, even if I *were* going to buy the pictures, which I’m not, you couldn’t see the pants anyway. Pictures are always from the waist up. Same reason I didn’t say anything when she put on her new Lightning McQueen flip-flops. So she looked like a hobo, who loves the movie "Cars" …. Who cares?

It wasn’t until we got to school this morning and I saw the photographer’s set up in the commons area that I remembered: Spring Picture Day is also Class Picture Day. And my vertically-challenged youngest daughter is ALWAYS in the front row.

So to the parents of Kendrie’s classmates: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it looks like a hobo-orphan was in school with your child this year. No, that’s not a homeless urchin who wandered in off the street and got in the picture. That is *my* grubby child in hole-y pants and pool shoes. I swear, I got her hair cut this afternoon, and threw the hole-y pants in the play-clothes drawer. I know, I know, too little too late. But I promise to try harder next year.

Apology #2: If you’ve been kind enough to write me this past week or so, I want you to know how much I appreciate each and every e-mail. And normally I try very hard to answer every one (I mean, not like there are HUNDREDS or anything, but you know what I mean) but this past week has been crazy-busy and I just haven’t been online like normal. Today, I spent four hours taking 426 photos (No, my fingers did not slip on the keypad and insert an extra digit. That’s four HUNDRED and twenty six photos) of a girlfriend of mine to give her husband as a birthday present in a few weeks. We were going for a 1940’s Pin-Up look, and if I do say so myself, I think they’re going to turn out great. Very Betty Grable-ish. She looked fabulous, and I’m sure he’ll love them when he sees them. Which made me think about the fact for Blaine’s birthday last month, I bought him a book and had cruise control put in his truck. Hmmmm, let’s balance one against the other, shall we? …. Sexy pin-up photos, or the ability to travel long distances at a steady speed? Obviously, we’ve been married a lot longer than they have, and we are also BORING AS HELL. But, apology #2 for being so busy leads to …..

Apology #3: There will be no new updates on this site until next week. I am leaving first thing tomorrow morning for Virginia to spend five days with some of my dearest girlfriends on the planet, and will be way too busy getting drunk eating chocolate gossiping scrapbooking sleeping laughing coming up with ways to save the rain forest to blog. We rented a condo that is advertised as “fully furnished” but since I am too much of a cheapskate frugal to purchase a laptop, unless “fully furnished” includes a wireless laptop with high speed internet connection, I won’t be online until next Tuesday. Just so you people won’t be hitting refresh and driving up my hit counter for no reason, although I’m extremely flattered anyone EVER uses the refresh button on my site.

But as I was thinking about the journal update I would do upon my return, it occurred to me that I’m getting pretty darn near the end of “The Saga of How Those Escoe Freaks Finally Got Their Shit Together and Became Parents” and that while some of you have requested that I go on into the story of my decision to become a surrogate, there is a good chance that more of you have gone into a COMA from the boringness and never-ending-ness of it all. So here’s my request: You tell me; I’ll leave it up to you. Hop online in the next day or two while I’m gone and let me know if I should continue, or if you’d prefer that I drop the topic and go back to our normal lives where I blog about my children’s obnoxious behavior and my obsession with Diet Dr Pepper and my ongoing quest to find a pair of jeans that successfully camouflage my muffin top. Or, if you’d prefer that in addition to dropping the baby topic, I also drop dead. Although really, if that’s the case, why are you here reading, you negative Nelly? Regular readers and lurkers alike, I’d love to hear from you and get your opinion ….. popular vote wins!

I'm Totally Pulling a Justin Timberlake

You remember when Justin Timberlake took the liberty of flashing Janet Jackson’s boob at all of us during the Super Bowl Half Time Show a few years ago? And then, when the television network required him to publicly apologize for his actions, his exact words were, “I’m sorry if that offended you” --- Do you remember that? I made a big stink to Blaine, and anyone else who would listen, about how THAT was not an apology, THAT was a cop out. A *conditional* apology. A **real** apology is when you take responsibility for your actions, admit they were wrong, and say you are sorry. Hugh Grant, going on Jay Leno, after getting caught with that prostitute while he was still dating Elizabeth Hurley, and saying “Yeah, I screwed up” --- THAT is taking responsibility for your mistakes. Not making some lame-ass statement like Justin Timberlake that is the verbal equivalent to “I’m sorry YOU are so uptight that seeing her scary nipple ring made you uncomfortable.” (Although, it *was* scary … did you SEE it???) He didn’t say he was sorry he did it, he didn’t take responsibility for his actions, or even pretend it happened by accident. He basically said, “I’m sorry if YOU didn’t like it.” And he said it with a smirk on his face. What a weenie.

Now, guess what. Regarding my previous journal entry, I have something to say: “I’m sorry if that offended you.”

What, exactly? Well, my comment, that for every healthy white baby placed for adoption, there were {statistically} one hundred couples approved and waiting to adopt. I did actually pause while typing, and hesitated putting it out there, due to those two words … Healthy. And White. And sure enough, I got called on it. Privately, and with tact and kindness, but called on it nonetheless. So I feel compelled to explain myself just a little, in case there are other people I offended with that comment as well.

When Blaine and I applied with the adoption agency, we were asked what kinds of babies and/or children we would consider adopting. White, black, Hispanic, mixed, older, special-needs, medically-challenged, sibling groups, foster kids, etc. And he and I talked about it for a long time, and honestly examined our feelings and expectations, and came to the decision that we wanted to adopt the same kind of child we would have given birth to, if we’d been able to become pregnant. I am white; he is white. Therefore, we wanted to try and adopt a white baby.

The bottom line is that there aren’t as many white newborns placed for adoption as there are people waiting to adopt. That’s why I made the comment about one hundred couples --- just to point out that we were so blessed to be chosen by M, when she could have gone to other agencies and had her pick of dozens and dozens of other couples, all of them equally deserving, and equally hopeful, just like us.

Had we been willing to consider a child of a different race, or an older child, or a special needs child, I’m sure we could have adopted much more quickly. And we considered it. Very seriously considered it. Even then, I felt sure I could love any baby, whether it was black or purple or plaid. Now, of course, with the wisdom and experience of being a parent, I know that to be true.

But adopting a baby, or an older child, or a child of a different race, is something you should do because you WANT to do, and you feel LED to do; because you are one of those amazing people who have a special calling to do such a thing. It should NOT be seen as a shortcut, just so you can adopt more quickly. At least we didn’t think so.

Some people didn’t understand why we made that decision. They didn’t agree, and thought we were being too picky. I had one person say to me, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” And for a brief moment, I wondered if they were right; were my expectations unreasonable, or too high? Was I some kind of closet-racist, and didn’t even realize it, that I wanted a white baby? But I kept coming back to the same argument -- I wanted to adopt the same kind of baby I would have had myself. And that baby would be white, unless my fantasy involving Denzel Washington ever came true, but that discussion is probably not appropriate for right now.

So we waited, and waited, and finally gave up. And as you know, after that, eventually, M picked us.

One thing I find truly ironic: Just a month or two after being approved, the agency contacted us not once, but twice, about a baby that was being placed for adoption that was born with severe birth defects. Years and years of medical challenges and complications lay ahead for this baby, and it was imperative they get it placed in a good home that could handle this sort of medical situation. We talked about it, and considered it, and said no. We felt it wouldn’t be fair, to us or the baby, to take on that sort of responsibility as a military family that bounced around so much. How could we provide continuous medical care, at the level this child would need, when we move every few years? We came to the decision that if any child of ours ever became unhealthy, we would deal with it then. But to knowingly take on that challenge wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do. And as you know, a few years later, our youngest daughter Kendrie was diagnosed with leukemia. And we discovered that the decision we made not to adopt that baby all those years ago was without merit after all, because our family could indeed handle a medical challenge.

Of course, had we adopted that baby, we wouldn’t have Brayden. And God knew she belonged in our family, which is why we were led not to adopt the first baby, or any other baby. Which is why (I know this in hindsight now) I never got pregnant, no matter how long or how hard we tried. Had I been able to get pregnant, we wouldn’t have tried to adopt. We had to get Brayden into our life first. Then God “cleared" me to become pregnant. I believe that with all of my heart.

But back to my comment. I’m sorry if I offended anyone with the words “white” or “healthy”. I’m sorry if it seemed insensitive to anyone’s family or anyone’s children. I’m sorry if I made it sound like any other kind of child wasn’t just as special and wonderful and deserving. All children are beautiful and deserve to be be raised in loving, good homes. Every single child. And if my earlier comment made it sound like I feel any other way, then I’m sorry. And if that comment was insulting or insensitive to you personally, then I’m sorry I offended you.

Things *WOULD* Be Getting Better, If I Could Pull My Head Out Of My Ass

You would think, after trying six years to have a baby, that I would be thrilled to find out I was pregnant, no matter the circumstance. But can you believe that I wasn’t? It wasn’t that I didn’t recognize this for the amazing thing that it was, or that I wasn’t happy; I was just so stunned, and taken aback, and in a way (a very small, petty way but hey, that’s just me) even sort of annoyed about it. Because yet again, it felt like life was happening TO us, and nobody was asking our opinion, and none of the plans we made, or the things we wanted to have happen, mattered.

First, I was in knots about telling M and the people involved with the adoption. I had this awful feeling in my stomach they would think we had somehow duped them into letting us adopt Brayden, and that we had made up the entire story of our infertility just to trick them --- that we were great big, Liar, Liar Pants on Fire Big Fat Fatty Pants Liars.

I felt guilty for what this would mean to Brayden --- we wanted to raise her in an environment where we were dedicated solely to her, at least for the first few years until we could adopt again. I just wanted to go back to California and concentrate and focus on HER. Nothing had been normal for her yet (I know, I know, it’s not like a six-month old knows the difference, as long as you show up with the bottles and strained peas and Desitin on a regular basis they’re pretty much happy as clams) but now, she was going to wind up with a little brother or sister barely a year younger than she was, and it’s not like she had any say in the matter.

And, because I am a shallow, one-dimensional, stubborn, thick-headed, raging bitch of a person, who cannot BEAR to be proven wrong, plain and simple, I just didn’t want to hear all the “See?!? See, I TOLD you it would happen that way!!!” and “Everyone who adopts gets pregnant afterward!!!” comments which I knew we would get. Which, we did, just like I suspected. Which, I hated and resented, just like I suspected I would.

I tried to tell people that we were the exception, not the rule. This was a fluke. Our first miracle brought about a second miracle, blah blah. People just rolled their eyes and smiled condescendingly at me, and repeated, “It always happens like that” and I. Hated. It. Because it was a repeat of how I felt when I had heard “Adopt, then you’ll get pregnant” when we were going through infertility treatments …. I felt like these comments were insulting and patronizing, and diminished Brayden and her treasured place in our family. Like people expected us to say, “Oh, thank heavens, it worked! That was the only reason we adopted, so *this* would happen!”

Maybe it was me, being overly-sensitive. But I don’t think so. A few of the specific comments made to me during the pregnancy:

“Oh, I bet you’re excited to have a baby of your own.” --- Um, excuse me? Because Brayden is not my own? She belongs to the family of rabid squirrels in the backyard?

“Oh, now you’ll be a real mom.” --- As opposed to the fake mom I am now?

“You’ll never love your adopted baby as much; the feelings just won’t be the same” --- Um, ….. WTH????

“See? You did a kind thing by adopting that baby and good karma comes around.” --- Ok, that one made me the angriest. First of all, adopting a baby is not like going to the pound and picking out a puppy that no one else wants. Believe me, we did not do anyone a *favor* by adopting Brayden. Again, if I could toss out a statistic from that time frame, studies showed for every healthy white newborn put up for adoption, there were 100 couples ready and waiting to adopt. ONE HUNDRED. (I have no idea what the numbers are nowadays.) We were incredibly lucky and blessed and thankful for the chance to adopt her, and never forgot it for one minute.

I guess I was worried that if other people thought those things, they might think *WE* thought those things as well, which we didn’t. Or that someday Brayden would wonder if we ever thought those things. Bottom line, I felt like I was cheating Brayden, the person I had come to care about most, and the most innocent in all this. Even if she did have a mom who, in addition to being unexpectedly pregnant, would sadly, often, without intention or malice, have a tendency to, in her story-telling ways, dreadfully overuse and abuse the comma.

It took me a long time to come to terms with the pregnancy. I stayed annoyed for quite a while. At that point in my life, being annoyed was sort of a permanent condition for me. Luckily, I came to terms with it before he was born. And the minute he was born, I felt like an ass for ever worrying about stupid things like that. And to this day, I look at him and watch him with such pride and joy and wonder, and feel shame that I wasn’t overjoyed about his pregnancy from day one.

But, I have to be honest and say that I wasn’t. I just wasn’t in the right mental place. But for the first time, in a long time, it appeared we were going to catch a break and something was going to go OUR way for a change.

Six months after Brayden was born and shortly after I discovered I was pregnant, something happened (again, with the legal details I’m not at liberty to share) and we realized it was going to be months, and perhaps more months, before the court case would be over. I don’t know who felt more despair; Blaine, alone in California, me, or my poor, displaced parents who couldn’t walk two steps in their own house without tripping over baby paraphernalia, and who didn’t have room in their kitchen cabinets for their own dishes and glasses because I had taken over all the space with bottles and nipples and formula and baby bathtubs and bottle warmers and baby food and all the eight bazillion other things you need on a daily basis with a six-month old, and whose laundry room had been overrun with dirty sleepers and jumpers and cute baby outfits and burp rags and blankets and crib sheets and all that other good stuff.

Our attorney took pity on us and on our situation; I guess is what finally happened, once we saw it wouldn’t be over anytime soon. He went to the judge presiding in the case and asked permission for me to take Brayden and leave the state. It’s not like we were a flight risk … Blaine worked for the government, for Pete’s sake, they could always find us. We weren’t going to take the baby and flee to Canada, and our attorney vouched for us that if need be, if we lost our case, we would bring Brayden back to Oklahoma. Although, God forbid, just saying those words aloud made my heart fall into my kneecaps and my stomach churn and my throat close up and my neurons and synapses completely quit working until I could barely walk or talk or think.

And the judge gave permission.

And I got to go to California with Brayden, and join Blaine, and at long last, begin our life as a family of three.

And a half.

Things Can Only Get Better

And we took Brayden home from the hospital, and she was the greatest baby ever, and we lived happily ever after. Forever and ever. Amen.

Um, yeah. You didn’t think it would be *that* easy, did you?

A few things first ……from your comments:

To all the adoptive parents, birth parents, prospective parents, and adoptees who wrote in, or e-mailed me privately, and shared a bit of your life with me, thank you so much. I am truly touched to hear from so many people who feel a connection, through their own experiences, with this exciting time in our life, and honored that you would share your own stories.

Jeff B, the new song is for you. I had trouble finding a song titled “Yippee, after all those years of infertility I’m finally a Mom!” so I chose this one, “Things Can Only Get Better” because that’s how we felt at this point. Thanks for reminding me, via Mel, that although “It’s All About Me” (and you KNOW that it is) that I’d been hammering it home a little too long. :)

Kim, yes, scalloped scissors. {hangs head shamefully}

D. Johnson, if you’d like, please e-mail me privately. There was no contact in your comment section so I can’t e-mail you, but I’d be happy to talk to you, if you feel comfortable.

So, ok, back to the story. You guys might have THOUGHT it was over, but no, we were just getting started. Remember we brought Brayden home to my parents’ house, in our role as fosters parents, for ten days, until M was able to relinquish her parental rights. Those were ten fun, happy, sleep-deprived, joyful, busy days. Friends threw us a baby shower, and prior co-workers threw us another. We were able to take Brayden to Blaine’s uncle’s church a few hours away and have her dedicated with all our family there to watch. It was a little stressful, sure, because we were staying at my mom and dad’s house and didn’t have all the “things” you normally need for a newborn. We had a fully stocked, fully furnished nursery back in California, but since we were only going to be in OK for ten days, we didn’t worry too much about what we would need there. We had a car seat, of course, for our rental car, and borrowed a bassinette and baby tub from my sister. Diapers, wipes, a diaper bag, a few outfits, a few bottles, some formula, and the gifts we got at the showers. That was pretty much all we had. And it was a little hectic, newborns always are, but mainly it was enjoyable to spend that time with family, and let them get to know Brayden, especially since we knew it would be a while before we would see them again.

After the ten days went by, M signed the papers. And the birthfather contested the adoption.

*** Here is that disclaimer again about how despite the song I normally play on this site, this story is not JUST about me, it’s about M, too. And at this point, it’s Brayden’s story as well, so even more, I feel I am not at liberty to give details. Especially legal details. Partly because quite frankly, they’re private, and partly because Brayden doesn’t even know the whole story yet. So I won’t get into things here, on the internet, like I might normally, and I won’t discuss the legal hoops through which we all had to jump, and the specific timeline during which these things happened. I’ll go over it from my point of view, because that's really all I have .... as thoroughly as I can without breaching any confidence, but suffice it to say, despite all the details I am leaving out, you'll just have to believe it was nerve-racking. ***

The gist of our situation is that a contested adoption is not something that can be handled in a week. Or two. Or a month. We had a great attorney, and trusted him very much. And understood why it was necessary that this situation be handled properly, and thoroughly, and correctly, so there could be no problems or ramifications down the road. But we had no idea what was going to happen.

After a few weeks, Blaine had to return to work. He only had so much time he could take off, even with FLMA, even with an understanding boss. So, he flew back to California and I stayed behind with Brayden. Because, here’s the kicker: I was *technically* the foster mother. And Brayden was *technically* in foster care. Which meant I was not allowed to cross the state line with her. So for as long as this situation was being handled legally, that meant I had to stay with Brayden in Oklahoma. Or put her in a real foster home and go to California to be with Blaine. Um, yep. You can pretty much guess that THAT wasn’t happening!

And thus began our odyssey of “Being a Parent Like THIS was Not Quite What I Had Planned” (See? See how I did that? Just tied right into the title of the blog? Because I’m clever like that and all…..)

And one month turned into two, and two turned into three. And I realized that with what I had already paid for the rental car, I could have just BOUGHT a used car. I had come to Oklahoma in mid-January with two weeks worth of winter clothes in a suitcase, and it was now almost May. And the novelty of the situation had worn off, and I was starting to get a little stressed out.

I love my parents dearly. I was so blessed that I could stay with them during this time, and not have to stay in a motel, or rent a furnished apartment. And it was nice to get to spend more time with M, and my sister and my nephew, and to show Brayden off to all our friends back home.

But I was definitely veering towards frazzled. Blaine would fly in once a month to visit us for three or four days; a long weekend. He was very unhappy, because Brayden was getting bigger and older and he was missing it. And although my parents were good about helping me, I was basically doing the single-parent thing, which was exhausting. So when Blaine would come home, I would hand him the baby and just mentally check out for two or three days. He did all the bottles and diaper changes and baths while he was there. It was good for all of us, but it still wasn’t what we wanted; it wasn’t being in our own home, with our own baby, as our own family.

I was starting to resent the living situation, as well. I had flown back to California by now, and driven my car back to Oklahoma (my parents watched Brayden for the four days it took me to do this---see what I mean by how lucky I was?) so at least I had some of our things. But still, learning to be a parent, and getting to know my baby, out of a suitcase in the spare bedroom at my folks house, was NOT what I had in mind. I had been daydreaming and fantasizing about being a mom for six years, and this was not what I had pictured, to say the least.

My dad was retired and disabled, so pretty much sat in the living room all day. Although he did nothing to make me feel this way, I still felt like I had an audience all the time. I just wanted to be alone with my baby, and there was no real way to make that happen. So I would put her in the car and drive around for hours, letting her nap in her carseat. I took her to the mall, two or three times a week, and pushed her around in her stroller. My mom and dad were great, but I knew having us there was an imposition on them, and they missed their quiet life, as well. Brayden and I had a standing Thursday night outing with a friend for dinner out, then back over to his house to watch the Must-See TV shows. I had another friend who had a baby six weeks after Brayden was born, and I hung out at her house a lot. Mainly, I just tried to find ways to fill up our days, and get Brayden and me out of the house.

What I wanted, was to be ALONE, with MY BABY, in MY HOUSE, with MY THINGS. That probably makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but I was very much accustomed to privacy, and having my own space, and doing my own thing. My parents were kind and loving and hospitable, but I was a guest in their home, and I felt like I was stuck on “pause” in a movie about my life. And as grateful as I was for my parents help, the bottom line was, THIS WASN’T HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE, and I started to get frustrated and resentful. My very favorite time of the day, or night, as it was, were Brayden’s middle-of-the-night feedings. That was the only time I was ever alone with her; just the two of us, peaceful and quiet. I would give her the bottle, and sing “You Are My Sunshine” to her over and over. And I would actually feel sad when she would go back to sleep, because our alone-time was over. And daylight would roll around and once again I would get upset because there was no privacy, no where I could go that was my own, no way to be with Brayden, just the two of us, that didn't involve hanging out at a park or driving in my car.

I’m sure anyone with half a semester of freshman psychology can guess that my anger and resentment was nothing more than fear. Fear that the adoption would fall through. Fear that despite what our attorney said about our iron-clad case, he would be wrong and I’d have to give her back. Fear that this baby, this wonderful baby, who I had waited so long to hold in my arms and love and cherish …… who I knew, beyond anything I had ever known before, was MY OWN DAUGHTER, would be taken from me.

I kept saying to Blaine, every month when he would fly from California to visit, “This is just crazy. We have a great relationship with M. Everything is perfect; everything went textbook. Good grief, as far as the three of us go, we could be the POSTER CHILDREN for open adoption!” Yet we were still mired down in the court system.

Three months turned into four.

Four months turned into five.

By the six month point, I was crazy. Our case hadn't even made it through court yet. I was sick and damn tired of living with my parents. I was frustrated and anxious all the time, and rude to my parents, who had done nothing but try and help. I was terrified the adoption wouldn’t work out. I was bitchy to everyone, and paranoid and defensive and felt like life was out to get me. I had waited six years to be a parent, and I couldn't even enjoy it. And I hated myself for being such a hag, when I had been given this beautiful, amazing gift. I was perturbed and discouraged, and all the other adjectives you can think of to describe someone who is pretty much on the edge. The very far edge. The edge where your tippy-toes can feel the open air underneath them and you start to think you should back up a little in case heaven forbid you lose your balance and something really bad happens.

And then? I'LL BE DAMNED if I didn’t find out I was pregnant.

Welcome to the World, Brayden

M had stated that she was willing to have us at the hospital the day Brayden was born, and we were more and more excited as that day drew closer. As a side note, M managed to keep the sex of the baby secret, like we asked, throughout the entire pregnancy, but just a few days before delivery, her aunt slipped with a comment that let us know, or at least suspect, that it was a girl, indeed. We had been guessing boy, so had to reverse our way of thinking, but we were still so excited, boy or girl, that we bordered on obnoxious, I'm sure. But M didn’t want us in the room while she was delivering. I can hardly blame her. Not only is there an awful lot of nekkid-ness that goes on, it was bound to be an emotional time for her as well. I can’t speak for her, and what she was thinking or feeling, but we certainly respected her need for privacy.

We drove to the hospital that morning, and being the dorks that we are, realized we didn’t really know where to go. I hung back, and was more hesitant, than Blaine. M’s family was in the labor & delivery waiting areas, but this was bound to be an emotional time for them as well. And it’s hard to explain …. As excited as Blaine and I were, and as thrilled as we were that this day was finally here, part of me felt like a vulture, swooping in to take what I wanted. It felt selfish and insensitive to sit in the same waiting area, brimming with happiness and joy and anticipation, when their experience, although waiting on the same delivery, was bound to be completely different.

So we waited in the downstairs lobby for a while, until I began to get paranoid that we might miss something, or they would think we didn’t care, or that worse, they would think we weren’t coming at all. And just like the night before, you would think every single detail of this day would be etched in my mind, but it’s really not.

I remember around 2pm, we got the exciting news that Brayden had been born. I remember going into M’s room with Blaine, and seeing her sitting on the bed holding the baby. I remember not knowing where to go or what to do. It seemed insensitive to rush over and start oohing and aahing over the baby straightaway; I was concerned with M and how she was doing, and yet the other half of me, insensitive or not, wanted to rush right over to Brayden and do exactly that.

I remember it was a day filled with emotion, and most of it was happy. I’m sure for M’s family it was bittersweet. We took tons of photos, and my favorite photo, and one that Brayden still has framed in her room, is a picture of M sitting in bed, holding her, and Blaine and me flanking either side of the bed, all of us looking at the camera and smiling. Brayden will never have to wonder about the circumstances of that day, and that picture is proof that everyone involved loves her so very, very much.

We did have one glitch at the hospital, and I only share it with you as further proof of M’s giving nature, in case it wasn’t already evident. The hospital where she delivered has its own adoption program, and the only way I can describe what happened to us, is that quite frankly, they were cranky we hadn’t gone through *their* program. My personal opinion is that they were annoyed we were using an independent agency, so they decided they didn’t need to do anything to facilitate our time there.

They informed Blaine and me that since we were not legally the parents, (remember, for the first ten days we would be Brayden’s foster parents, due to tribal law) that we were not allowed to check the baby out of the nursery, nor were we allowed to BE with the baby unless we had a chaperone. Sort of like “supervised visits only” in a divorce situation. And since we hadn’t used *their* adoption program, none of *their* social workers could/would serve as our chaperones. We would need our own social worker to be there if we wanted to see Brayden, or spend time with her.

“But that’s impossible,” I protested, “She works full-time in another hospital an hour away … she can’t possibly be here until 6 or 7 at night! What are we supposed to do all day? Just sit and look at her through the nursery window? That’s ridiculous!”

And the response we got in return was the grown up version of “Too bad, so sad.”

They even took Polaroid photos of Blaine and me to put in the nursery, as a visual reminder to the other nurses that we were NOT ALLOWED to have the baby. Seriously. Polaroid pictures of us, like mug shots. I’ve always wondered if they drew a big circle with a line through our faces. Bastards.

And this is when, if I had any doubt at all that M and I were cut from the same cloth, that doubt ended. She heard what was happening, and that Blaine and I wouldn’t be allowed to see Brayden all day, and her comment (exact comment, I believe) was “That’s bullshit.” So each day, until our social worker could get there in the evening, M would check the baby out of the nursery herself, then let Blaine and me hang out in her room with her so we could do the things like feed her (unskilled though we were) and change her diapers (even more unskilled … did we not listen to ANYTHING in our parenting classes?) and count her fingers and toes and rock her and talk to her and all those other things you do the first two days in the hospital.

Can you imagine how difficult that must have been, and how selfless her actions were? We tried very hard to be sensitive, and leave our flashing, neon “New Mommy!” and “New Daddy!” signs at home ….. and I am forever indebted to her for giving us that time with Brayden. But still, I couldn’t wait for those 48 hours to pass so we could go home and begin our time as a family, and so M could go home and begin her healing, as well.

We asked M to give her a middle name, and even though, for legal purposes, another name went on her birth certificate, at long last, six YEARS after we started trying to have a baby, we went home as parents, with Brayden Christine Grace. Well, not home-home. To my parents’ house. But still, finally, we were parents. Ok, technically, foster parents on paper, but parents in our minds and in our hearts. And we were thrilled. And she was beautiful and brilliant and bound to change the world. And it was even better than we hoped it would be. (Well, until that first bath, when she pooped all over my favorite sweatshirt. But I guess I can overlook that part.)


Aunt Kelly and Uncle Cliff meeting Brayden for the first time, the day we loaded up and left the hospital. And drove our little rental car like terrified 16 year olds who had just gotten their licenses and were transporting plutonium and a dead body in a stolen car. I'm surprised we didn't get a ticket for delaying traffic but we HAD to round the corners so slowly because otherwise her little bobble head might just fall off, FALL OFF I tell you and we suddenly realized that whoa, this whole parenting gig is a lot scarier than it looks on TV, and we are RESPONSIBLE for this little person and even though we only had a few miles to go I rode in the back seat the entire time to make sure she was still breathing and that her car seat didn't spontaneously come undone and continued to yell at Blaine to slow down because he was going to cause her permanent spinal cord injury or brain damage if he exceeded ten miles per hour and jostled her about in such a careless manner!!!!

On a Tangent. And a Soapbox.

I feel the need to clarify, given my constant ranting and ravings, that yes, the bureaucracy of Tricare sucks sometimes. It sucks big, green, giant, don …. Well, you get my drift. But, try to find any health care monolith, which provides medical care and coverage to millions of people, that isn’t a maddening pile of red tape at times, and you know …. I don’t think it exists. And considering all we’ve been through, and knowing what we know now, with hindsight being 20/20, if we could rewind the clock, and turn back time, with the chance for a do-over …. Well, we probably wouldn’t do anything any differently. Given our personal situation, especially.

Yes, it would most likely have made things easier if we could have transferred to a military base with a comprehensive cancer center, instead of Blaine getting some of his treatments at the Air Force Base here, and some three hours away at Ft. Gordon Army Hospital, and flying numerous times clear across the country to Seattle. It’s been a complete pain in the ass, and one of our biggest sources of frustration, for him to have dozens of doctors scattered all over the country. But it worked out this way for two reasons. One, we REQUESTED to stay here so Kendrie could finish her cancer treatment, and begin her follow up care, at Scottish Rite in Atlanta. Five years in the same location? That is unheard of in the military, yet we've done it. Granted, Blaine’s care got put on the back burner when she was diagnosed six months after him, and some things possibly slipped through the cracks. That’s partly our fault, too, as we were paying so much attention to her treatment, and perhaps not as much to his. But even now, we wouldn’t trade the quality of care she received for anything. Blaine’s care had to be farmed out, if we wanted the best people for the job to do it, given that we weren’t willing to move. Not that moving was ever offered to us as a suggestion, but even if it had been, we would have said no.

And two, when this whole thing started, and throughout the entire process, it’s been a series of complications and setbacks that no-one, short of God Himself, could have foreseen. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve heard, “Well, *that* should take care of it!” …. Only for a procedure to be unsuccessful, or an infection to set in, or a complication to develop, or for the radiation to kick his ass, or for the cancer to return. Nobody could have predicted that all these things would happen and that Blaine’s health would turn into a comedy of no-fault errors ….. that our lives, for all intents and purposes, would become a living, breathing example of “shit magnet” at its finest. No-one was subversively hanging out in the kitchen, making one crap sandwich after another to serve our family. Things just wound up being more complicated and drawn-out than we ever expected. So sure, its easy to look back now, with the advantage and wisdom of experience, and know that being stationed somewhere where he could have received comprehensive care would most likely have been helpful. But there was no way to know, going through it, that any of this would have been more complex than the doctors anticipated in the beginning. So even if we *could* have moved, we probably wouldn’t have, because we’ve always thought, and hoped, that we were seeing light at the end of the tunnel. It’s just that in this particular case, that light has usually wound up being an oncoming train, headed right for us.

I don’t think Blaine has gotten bad care. I do think it’s inevitable that given all he’s gone through, over the course of the past four years, that we would encounter a glitch or two. Or three or four or seven hundred. It’s frustrating, and it’s annoying, and yes, we second-guess ourselves and wonder “what the hell?” and beat our heads against the wall with alarming regularity. In fact, I'm pretty sure that his doctors have been frustrated by his case, as well. Blaine is a living, breathing reminder that sometimes, even their best attempts can't heal or cure a person. But the care he has received has been good overall, and at times, exemplary. Nothing that has gone wrong with him is anyone’s fault; none of his providers have been malicious or harmful or negligent. There have definitely been situations where they’ve caught things and preemptively helped him. The Air Force dentist who found the tumor; the Army surgeons who removed it and saved his eye; the Army orthopedists who saved his leg when he got the MRSA staph infection after his first major surgery; and all the doctors and specialists along the way, who have helped, or tried to help, deal with the complications and obstacles that have cropped up. I just get frustrated because I want him well. I want him back the way he was before he was diagnosed, and I worry that’s never going to happen. And, like every family with a cancer patient knows, it’s aggravating that there is no one to BLAME for the situation, so I sometimes get irrationally annoyed with the people attached to the situation, ie, the medical staff. I can’t yell at him although I do sometimes but only when he really, really deserves it so who else can I gripe about?

In light of the Walter Reed situation, and the fact several of you have made correlations in the comments section, I feel compelled to state that although we have been perturbed and stymied over the years, we have never felt neglected. I think the military doctors (civilian, as well) that have treated Blaine have, for the most part, been competent and kind and capable. Sure, there has been an asshole or two, sprinkled here and there, but I think that’s to be expected in any career field. If I’ve given anyone reason to think, what with my bitching and moaning and griping and all, that he hasn’t been treated well by the military, I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention at all. I have no doubt just the opposite is true, and had he been employed by a civilian employer, that we would have been unemployed and in bankruptcy by now. It’s just frustrating that with regards to his medical situation, not one damn thing seems to go as planned.

And if I could get up on my medium-sized soap box, regarding Walter Reed and the military in general, I have just one word to sum up the entire situation: Overburdened. Blaine’s never been treated at Walter Reed; we’ve never been there; I have no idea what has happened there. But you, (and I don’t mean YOU-you, but “you” in general) can only slash the military budget so much, so many times, and still expect top-quality services across the board. When people say they are tired of seeing money spent on tanks and bombs and guns, and the war in Iraq needs to end, they need to understand that cutting defense spending doesn’t only affect the war on terror. It also means less military personnel overall everywhere, which means less doctors and less nurses treating more patients; it means military hospitals don’t always have the funding for equipment and supplies and medications; it means benefits have to be cut, both for active-duty and veterans, it means less repair work on military bases and military housing; it means more and more Department of Defense schools being shut down; it means fewer and fewer active-duty members, who still have to do accomplish the same amount of work that was done when the military was 30 percent larger. Most appalling to me, it means allowing an environment where airmen with families are paid so little that they are eligible for food stamps. And that’s just wrong.

OK, off the soapbox now.

Actually, the authorization expiring makes me realize it’s been exactly four years since Blaine was diagnosed. Referrals are good for one year, which is why it’s time to renew his. Four years. March of 2003. Was that a long time ago, or what? And it reminds me that I don’t think I’ve ever told the story of when he was diagnosed, and how I found out. I’ll share it with you sometime, because it’s actually a little bit funny.

In the meantime, thanks for giving me the space to vent here about what is going on with him, but please know that’s all it is; venting. Me, letting off a little steam and fear and anxiety, the best way I know how. With insults and four-letter words.

Lots and lots of four-letter words.

They’re the best kind, after all.

Pause .....

Sorry there’s no new entry today (I remember the days when posting twice a week seemed like a lot, now I feel weird if I miss a day) but Tuesdays are usually difficult for me to get on the computer. It’s the day I volunteer at the kids school from 8-3, then rush home for snacks and homework, leave again for soccer practice (Kendrie) soccer practice (Kellen) and basketball practice (Kellen) all three at different times in different places. Home by 7:30, make a delicious late-dinner for my family (Ha, how about mini-pizzas, because they’re quick, and nothing says “I love you and care about your nutritional health” quite like slapping some cheese on an English muffin), finish homework, baths, then story time, because I am a devoted parent, except unfortunately last night I actually fell asleep sitting up on the sofa with “The Boxcar Children” propped in my lap. At 9pm. Seriously. 9 pm. I think I need to have my thyroid checked or something. Today’s not looking much better, since I’m proctoring writing tests at the school in the morning, then splurging with part of our income tax return to have cruise control put on Blaine’s truck and will be at the dealers all afternoon. Wow, cruise control. We are wild and crazy when we get some extra cash in our hands, aren’t we? Quick jaunt to Jamaica? Big-screen TV? Boob lift? No, cruise control.

Add in to this the fact that Blaine is in Seattle this week so I’m doing the solo parenting gig for a few …. Wait. What? He’s NOT in Seattle this week? "But I thought this was the follow-up visit he has had planned for months, to get his second post-radiation MRI of his head, meet with his oncologist, meet with the surgeon, and have the CT done of his lungs for that stupid, stupid mass in his shoulder????" Well, that was the plan anyway. He was supposed to leave Sunday, but we were contacted late Friday afternoon and informed that his Tricare referral-authorization had expired the day before. And since it takes them 3 to 5 working days to push through a new authorization, he wasn’t allowed to go to Seattle. So the whole thing will have to be rescheduled, with all the doctors and all the tests, once the new authorization is approved.

What-the-fuck-ever.

Anticipation ....

Just like the ketchup song. The next five months went by both unbelievably quickly, and agonizingly slowly. When Blaine and I got settled in Los Angeles, we had a 1-800 line installed in the house so M could call us whenever she wanted. Sounds a little silly now, but back then, e-mail was a brand-new thing and none of us had cell phones or text-message capabilities, so an 800-line in the house was considered pretty high-tech, believe it or not. We talked regularly, and got better acquainted. I flew back to Oklahoma several times to spend time with her.

On the one hand, I can understand why adoption agencies normally encourage birthmoms to be in their third trimester before meeting the prospective family. Nine months is a long time to wait, for everyone involved, and obviously she had lots of time to consider her decision, and worst case scenario (for us) change her mind. Blaine and I were friends with a couple (the couple who wound up successfully suing this agency for their money back) who had gone through five birthmoms. FIVE. Five times they had met a birthmom, five times they thought they were getting a baby, five times it fell through. Once, they were standing at the hospital, camcorder and car seat in hand, when they got the news she had changed her mind. I was realistic enough to know that could be us, too.

But hopeful enough to think it wouldn’t be. M never wavered. Not once did she indicate to us that she had reconsidered, or was having second thoughts. I felt confident that she would go through with her decision to place her baby with us. On the flip side, you don’t ever, ever, EVER want a birth-mom to feel pressured or obligated to go through with a decision that she’ll regret later. It’s a fine line to walk. Being supportive, without being pushy.

The more we got to know her, the more we liked her. The more we discovered we had in common. I worried sometimes, when I would call her, that she would think I was checking up because I only cared about the baby. That wasn’t the case at all. I felt like we had become friends, and I cared about her and what was going on in her life besides the pregnancy. Of course, I couldn’t *not* ask about the pregnancy, because then what if she thought I didn’t care about the baby? As it was, we had a great, healthy, respectful relationship with a birthmom we liked and trusted … and I was still stressed out half the time. If ever I needed a crystal ball, so I could peer in the future and just relax, this was it.

About a month before her due date, we had friends back home getting married. Blaine and I flew home for the wedding, and then I stayed, while Blaine returned to LA to work a few more weeks. It gave me more time to spend with M, and I also got to spend time with her family, which was a wonderful opportunity. They were kind, and gracious, and welcomed me into their home. But there was a part of me, I must confess, that felt guilty. Here I was, excited and hopeful and thinking about what a wonderful day the birth was going to be for us, and how our whole life was about to change in such a fabulous way, yet remembering that this entire situation had come about because M had the courage to make the hardest, gut-wrenching, most selfless decision ever. For her and her family, it was going to be a day of loss. I felt very conflicted, because I had grown to care about her so much and I hated to think about the hurt she would go through, which would result in my happiness. I felt happy, I felt sad, I felt frightened, I felt hopeful … seriously. It’s a miracle I wasn’t on Prozac.

Then, a few weeks before the birth, we got a call from the social worker again. There was a problem.

In the state of Oklahoma, a birthmom can relinquish her rights at the time of birth, and the baby can go home with her adoptive parents. But if the birthmom is part Native American, which M was (technically, of course, she still is, although it just cracks me up to realize it because she is a fair-skinned blonde if ever there was one) then by state law, she is not allowed to relinquish her birth rights for ten days. “The Tribe” wants to maintain its integrity by ensuring babies are not placed for adoption “outside the tribe” without the birth-mom having plenty of time to make sure her decision is the right one. In theory, I understand it, but as it pertained to our case, it just seemed silly. We wanted the baby to go home with us … M wanted the baby to go home with us. We had discussed it, involved the social worker, made our plans …. And now, the baby was going to have to go into foster care for those ten days.***

Uh, no. Not MY baby!

***Let me just say, this is how things were for us, when *we* went through it. Laws might have changed since then, things are done differently in different states, and invoking the name of James Frey, I admit some of the details might have gone fuzzy in the past ten years. But this is how I remember it happening.

The adoption agency pushed through some paperwork which allowed Blaine and I to quickly become foster parents for their agency, which meant the baby could be placed with us. Technically, we weren’t the “adoptive” parents. We were only the foster parents, and we did this with the complete understanding that if at any time during those ten days, M were to change her mind, we would have to give the baby back.

We never hesitated. She never gave us a reason to.

The due date was getting close. Blaine flew back to Oklahoma. We were starting to get really excited. We were starting to get really nervous. And anxious. And a million other things. We planned to stay with my mom and dad for those ten days until we could file the paperwork to legally adopt the baby, (which we didn’t know yet if it was a boy or a girl), complete with the Inter-State Compact Agreement, since we no longer lived in Oklahoma, and then we planned to fly back to California and begin our new life together, the three of us. We rented a car so we could get around in the meantime, and waited.

Finally, her doctor set a date for induction: February 13th.

The night before, Blaine and I stayed in a hotel across the street from the hospital. Not because we needed to be close, but because it was such a momentous night … our last night JUST THE TWO OF US, that we wanted to be alone, and not stay in the spare room at my parent’s house. I don’t remember what we did that night. You’d think I would remember … did we go out to eat? To a movie? Go to bed early since it would be the last night of decent rest we would get for awhile??? The final night before we became parents, and yet, I don’t have a clue what we did.

But I do remember getting up the next morning, and thinking, “Today is the day! Today is the day I finally become a Mom!”

The Call

I gave notice at my job, to the employer who had been so very understanding and supportive of the eight thousand medical appointments, the days and days of doctor-ordered bedrest after each IVF, and the birth parent classes and requirements from the adoption agency, that I had to take off work to attend over the course of the past three years. Blaine started gathering our records, we made a house-hunting trip to Los Angeles, we sold our house, we were in the middle of the “Pre-move how much junk have we accumulated over the past three years and what can we get rid of and what should we take with us to California” survey process, when the phone rang.

It was the social worker.

From the adoption agency.

The one that had not placed a baby with a family in the two+ years since we had been approved.

They had a birth mother who wanted to meet us.

All the feeling went out of my legs and I had to sit down for a minute.

Although Blaine and I were still very excited about the possibility of adopting, and sure, if you want to be honest, nursing a teeny, tiny flame of hope in the very dark, very back corners of our minds that it would happen, the practical parts of us had written this adoption attempt, with this particular adoption agency, off as a lost cause. We had written it off over a year ago, when we quit hearing from anyone there. So to suddenly get a phone call, out of the blue, as we were packing up to move thirteen hundred miles away, telling us there was a birthmom who wanted to meet us, was a shock indeed.

~~~~Now is when I have to be completely honest with you guys. I am so proud of Brayden, and so proud of our getting the opportunity to be her parents, that I would pretty much take out a billboard and advertise the entire story without a moment’s hesitation. But at this point, the story is no longer just about me. I can sit here and talk, unabashedly, about having a strange man between my legs gathering semen half an hour after having sex, and not blink an eye. But at the point where Brayden’s birthmom enters the story, I feel I need to draw some boundaries, to respect and protect her privacy.

Not because I’m embarrassed or awkward or self-conscious about the process or about her. Just the opposite. Blaine and I ADORE her. We would build a shrine to her, if that sort of thing were allowed. And not kind of creepy. She is a cherished part of our family, and she even reads this site.

And specifically because we owe her so much, and think so highly of her, I’m going to leave out any part of the story that I think might be encroaching on her personal space. I’ll still give you every detail as it relates to us (rest assured, you know I’ll manage to babble on for days, just as I always do) but if I have to skip over a few things, or leave out a few details, you’ll just have to trust that I’m not being lazy ….. simply protective. I’ll call her “M”.~~~~

She had seen our profile at the agency, and wanted to meet us, the social worker said. We made plans to have lunch at our local TGIFridays. I cannot tell you how nervous we were. Imagine the single most terrifying, thrilling, and anxiety-provoking-but-in-a-good-way feeling you can have. A blind date, with the perfect guy, multiplied times a bazillion. THAT’S how I felt. To this day, when I see the red and white stripes of a TGIFridays restaurant, I still get a little tingle in my gut.

Would she like us? What if she didn’t like us? Oh God, what if she hated us? What if we walked into the restaurant, she took one look at us, and she said never mind? What should I wear? What should Blaine wear? The social worker told us to bring more recent pictures of ourselves, our lives, our interests, etc. What pictures should we take? What if we came across as desperate and pathetic? What should I order to eat that will make me look like a responsible adult, yet still approachable and relaxed and fun? What will we talk about? What if I cuss by accident? What if I laugh at something completely inappropriate? What if I’m so nervous I forget the English language? What, what, what????

I remember washing the car before we went, so if she saw us drive up she would know we were responsible adults. I remember Blaine parking the car in the TGIF parking lot and us walking to the front door. I remember he reached over and held my hand, as a show of support. I remember thinking, “What if she’s looking out the window and sees us and thinks we’re dorks for holding hands? Should I jerk my hand away? But then she’ll think we’re not a loving couple. Oh GOD, WHAT SHOULD I DO!?!?!?!” You know, when you’re nervous enough, you can over-analyze the way you breathe.

But we walked in, and met her and the social worker, and had lunch, and talked and laughed and got acquainted and looked at pictures and told stories and you know what?

We adored her right from the beginning.

Sure, it was nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing and I probably tried a little too hard. And she was kind enough to overlook it. And she even told me later that she was nervous about whether or not *we* would like *her*, a thought that just cracks me up because hello? Who could NOT like her?

There were fluky things, and similarities, and we discovered our lives had intersected in ways that were too coincidental to overlook. Again, I’m not at ease sharing these specific details, but believe me when I say some of them were amazing. We felt very comfortable with her, and I think she felt the same way. Best of all, we actually, honestly, truly LIKED HER. I told Blaine later, “Not just because of the baby, but if I met her at work, or some other way, I could totally see us being friends.” Despite the social worker telling us all contact needed to go through the agency, we exchanged phone numbers before leaving the restaurant.

M. was the first birthmom to contact the adoption agency in over three years, or at least, the first birthmom not in crisis mode.** She told me, just recently, that the only reason she chose that particular agency was because she gets lost easily and she thought the address of their psuedo-office was one she could find easily. They told her to look at their book of prospective-adoptive-parent profiles and pick three to interview. She picked one; ours. She told the social worker she didn’t want to talk to anybody else, that we were the only couple she wanted to meet. She was only in her first trimester, and they told her when she reached the third trimester, she could meet us. She *insisted* on meeting us now. What if she hadn’t insisted? We would have been in California.

All these things led us to believe our meeting was meant to be, and that God had a hand in how things were happening.


**I should probably clarify that during this time, I believe the adoption agency had placed a few emergency-situation babies …. High-risk, drug-addicted, special-needs, emergency foster care situations. But this was the first “non-crisis” potential adoption since we had been approved.


So, with promises to keep in touch, we moved to California. And started praying that this would actually work out the way we so desperately hoped it would.

Well-Meaning Friends

Like I mentioned earlier, I had kept pretty close wraps on our efforts to conceive the first two years, but once we moved to the base in our hometown, it was more difficult to keep quiet. At first, I was excited because I was Soooooooo confident that the fertility treatments would be successful, and I’d be pregnant soon, that I didn’t mind sharing the news of how things were going. It’s thrilling to imagine yourself as a first-time parent, and talk about the steps you are taking to bring that about. And it was encouraging to hear stories of others who had also struggled, and undergone the same thing, but had successful outcomes. Those made me feel better, at the beginning, when things were still shiny and fresh and new.

Later, however, the narratives about “my cousin’s sister’s daughter’s boss’s niece’s best friend’s 5th grade history teacher did THIS, and it worked for her!” began to bug the crap out of me. I started hating it whenever I would hear those words … “I know someone who had trouble getting pregnant ….” because their successful outcomes were a reminder that our outcome had been anything but successful. After awhile, I just wanted everyone to keep their stories and opinions to themselves. (I tend to get a little touchy when I get upset, have you guessed that yet?)

And every time someone asked, every time I had to respond with a “No, nothing yet” it would make me more discouraged. And even more than the well-intentioned comments, which usually managed just to depress me, I was bothered by the insanely asinine remarks and suggestions that were made to us on a regular basis. It’s not like you can be mad at people for caring, and being curious, when YOU’RE the one who put it out there. But there is definitely a missing chapter in the book of social etiquette when it comes to the subject of fertility.

So, to help everyone out, I will share with you some of the comments that inflamed me the most, even though I was usually too much of a tight-ass polite to whip out the response I *really* wanted to give. Bear in mind, though, that I was a hateful, vile, odious grump of a person during this phase of my life, so I might have been a teensy bit sensitive and defensive. (ahem)

1. “You just need to relax, and then you’ll get pregnant.”

{All comments usually followed closely by, “That’s what happened to my aunt/sister/cousin/whoever.”}

Hands down, in my opinion, it’s the second most insulting remark made to couples undergoing fertility treatment. Also? It seems to be the remark that is made most often. It’s so patronizing that I can’t believe anyone who doesn’t smoke a pipe and have elbow patches on their jacket is ever allowed to utter the words. And yet, I cannot begin to estimate how many times that phrase, or a variation of that phrase, was said to me and Blaine.

Obviously, I can’t speak for infertile women everywhere (although if you give me a big-enough megaphone I’d sure give it a go), but the implication that I took from it, was the fact that, if I was not pregnant, it was ALL. MY. FAULT. If *I* could just relax, I could get pregnant. Never mind that I had doctors who had been to thirty-seven hundred years of medical school specializing in this very field, and that their recommendations and treatments and high tech equipment and drugs and procedures couldn’t get the job done ….. …. It must be MY FAULT because I CAN’T RELAX.

I would hear this phrase and the heat would begin to travel up my body until smoke came out my ears. I’m not even exaggerating. I think actual SMOKE came out of my ears once or twice. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins and hear it whooshing in my head, and my vision would sort of go red and fuzzy as my brain processed the fact that “Oh my fuck, they did NOT just tell me to relax!” I was so busy mentally preparing the snappy, sharp retort that would cut them off at the knees that I didn’t even hear the rest of what they were saying. It was like the teacher in Charlie Brown, all “Mwah, mwah, mwah” while I tried to get my blood pressure back under control. Then, because I am the worlds’ biggest weenie when it comes to confrontation, I would just smile and say, “Well, thanks for the advice.”

2. “Take a vacation, you’ll come home pregnant.” (Normal variation about how this happened to someone’s aunt/neighbor/boss/niece/whoever.)

Um, we took a LOT of vacations during those four years. Vacations with family, vacations to see friends, vacations just the two of us. Vacationing is what childless people DO. It never worked, and that’s usually what I would say, “Oh, tried that route, didn’t work .. but thanks for the advice.” Then go home and rant and rave to Blaine about how there is this stupid group of people out there who seem to think your reproductive organs become more efficient once you leave the state or cross the border. Morons.

3. “You need to just give up on treatments and let it happen naturally. You’re trying too hard. Once my sister/college roommate/co-worker quit trying, and told their doctor no more, it just happened.”

I actually had a comeback for this. At the time, statistics showed that 5% of all couples who discontinued fertility treatments would spontaneously get pregnant, without medical intervention, within the next year. You know why everybody and their dog knows someone, or has heard of someone, to whom this has happened? BECAUSE IT IS RARE AND NOTEWORTHY, that is why. If you attended a Resolve meeting, you would know that 95% of the couples in that room will NOT become pregnant if they discontinue treatment, which is why we keep going and going and going like a freaking deranged Energizer bunny, despite the negative fertility tests and crushing disappointment and continued onslaught of stupid, un-helpful comments.

4. “It’s hard for me to imagine. My husband pokes FUN at me and I get pregnant.”

Um, yeah. How is that supposed to make me feel better, exactly?

5. “Here, borrow one of my kids for awhile, then you’ll change your mind about having any!” usually said with a smug parental smirk by someone who thinks their child is perfect, perfect, perfect, and that they’re being funny.

What I wanted to say more than anything was, “Um, you’re right. That kid is a walking ad for tubal ligation, but thanks anyway.” But I never had the nerve. Then, years later, my brother- and sister-in-law told us about some childless friends of theirs who watched their 2 yr old son for a long weekend, than scheduled a vasectomy the next week. Although my nephew seems to be a pretty great kid from what I can tell, and I’m certainly not poking fun, I sure wish I had had that story to zing someone with at the time. Bottom line: I don’t want to borrow YOUR kid. I don’t want to babysit, I don’t want to volunteer in the church nursery, I’m not going to “get my fill” by working in a day care or being a teacher. I want my OWN baby. Not yours, mine. Who will be much cuter than yours, anyway.

6. “Forget the doctors and their fancy-schmancy ways. Go home, use a turkey baster, prop your butt up on pillows, and that’ll do the trick.”

I don’t even know what I should have responded to this, but that comment left me with a very unsettled feeling. And fear. Quite a bit of fear about what some of these people did in their spare time.

7. “I know exactly how you feel. It took me six months to get pregnant.”

Ok, um, no. Big fat no. Unless you can repeat the above sentence, and replace the number SIX with any number above 12, or 24, or 36, or whatever, you do NOT know how I feel. Chances are you’ve struggled more than me to get pregnant, or less than me, I don’t really know. But please be sensitive to the fact if your fertility struggles involved nothing more than three months of temperature charts, that does NOT equal what couples who have reached the point of IVF have gone through. If you DID struggle with infertility and want to say something supportive, this is what I suggest: “We struggled with infertility also, and I remember how frustrating it was.” Period. Then drop it. If I want to compare stories, I’ll ask. While you might think you are portraying yourself as a sensitive, empathetic friend, you are actually just pissing me off and making me jealous that yours worked after only six months and I’m STILL NOT PREGNANT, DAMNIT!!!

8. And (drum roll please) the single most offensive comment made to couples trying to conceive:

“Just adopt, then you’ll get pregnant.”

I … You ….. It … {splutter, splutter}….. Seriously. My spine stiffens and my jaw clenches and it’s like I’ve just chugged a glass of ice shards and nails when I hear this phrase.

Because to me, it implies adoption is something that is completely disposable … a means to an end. Like someone should suffer through *adopting* a baby, so they can get on to the important business of getting pregnant and having their *real* baby, the one that really matters.

Perhaps because Blaine and I *HAD* applied with an adoption agency, this comment was especially insulting to me. I always wanted to reply with, “And so then what? Once I get pregnant, I just give back the first baby because I accomplished what I set out to do?”

I mean, what is that comment even ABOUT????

{Could someone please pass the dip, to go with the giant bag of Ruffle chips I have on my shoulder?}

And let me reiterate the statistic from above …. Just like spontaneous conception after quitting infertility treatments, the number for couples who adopt, and then get pregnant on their own, is around 5%. Which means, if it happens to someone, IT IS FABULOUS AND RARE AND EVERYONE HEARS ABOUT IT. Which is why *everyone* knows *someone* or knows someone who knows someone, who “adopted, and then they got pregnant!”

I’m not talking about fertile couples who adopt, and then go on to have their own baby, either on purpose, or by “surprise!” I’m talking about this myth that an adoption will somehow magically solve the problem of infertility. Five percent. And the implication that someone should adopt a baby, just as a way to accomplish a pregnancy, is so insulting, so offensive, that I can’t even describe it. Not even if I used every word in the English language. Even every swear word.

And I used to say to Blaine, “Oh my Lord, I can’t wait until we adopt a baby and then I don’t get pregnant, so I can show all these stupid people that it doesn’t happen like that!”

But since the adoption agency we were using hadn’t placed any babies in the past TWO years, by this point, we knew the fertility clinic in California was going to be our best bet. So we started packing up for our move, and looking forward.

No News Is .... Well, Just What We Expected.

But we feel better, just the same.

Thanks to all of you for your nice notes and warm thoughts today. We didn’t get any definitive information at the doctor’s appointment, but we didn’t expect any, to be honest. Unless the physician had developed x-ray vision within the past week and could peer right into Blaine’s shoulder, or he could sense what the mass is … “With his mind”.... {picture me, raising my eyebrows and rubbing my temples} … then we knew we wouldn’t find that out today. But it was a chance for us to vent a little, and have our feelings and frustration validated. And he agreed that we’ve become a quintessential little dog, chasing our tail, yapping our fool-head off, and never getting anywhere. Nothing is actually going to CHANGE, but he’s aware, and we have a bit of a plan, so that’s encouraging. I’ll let you know more when I know more, after Blaine’s follow-up appointments in Seattle next week. In the meantime, thanks for keeping us in your thoughts!

First thing tomorrow morning, back to Fertility Watch, 1996.