About a year ago, I blogged about the NICU reunion. And that is the thing about blogs–holidays, anniversaries, events: they all show up again. And sometimes you are in a different space–mentally or emotionally–and sometimes you are not.

It had been a full year since the kids were last at the hospital and it was interesting to see that their memory of the place was not the apnea clinic or their neonatologist, but instead, the last NICU reunion. When we pulled into the hospital, my daughter announced, “this is the garage where you park before you go up to the place with the bouncey castle!” I too was thinking in terms of the last reunion rather than our actual time in the NICU. It is strange how that shift takes place, as if the last event at the hospital bumps even the most important threads down the forum list inside our brains.

We only found one of our nurses at the actual carnival, so we brought the kids upstairs to the NICU to see our favourite nurse, N. My daughter always retells stories that we have told her as if she actually remembers the events–even the ones that she was not around to witness (“let me tell you about your wedding, Mommy!”) or too young to recall. When she saw N, she told her shyly, “I was so proud when I took out my ng tube” and N told her, “you didn’t want a tube down your nose; you wanted a bottle.” It was a conversation that I could have never imagined happening when we were actually in the NICU under N’s care.

As we were leaving, I showed my daughter the bathroom I locked myself in twice during their stay–once on the night that I had to leave the hospital for the first time and once prior to my son’s bris. I opened the door to peer into the single-stall bathroom and my daughter said, “it’s empty. Why are you looking in the bathroom?”

I pointed at the floor near the wall and I said, “I sat there on the floor the night I had to leave you in the hospital. I really liked N and I knew she would take good care of you, but I’m your mommy and I didn’t want to go.”

The whole car ride home, my daughter chirped, “you stayed in the bathroom, Mommy. You were crying. You didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to leave me.” Until we got to a red light and Josh looked at me carefully for a moment. “Do you think your hesitancy to leave them is tied to that night? Before they were born, you always said that you wanted to be like our friend, P, trusting everyone and allowing the hypothetical village to raise her children. And since that night when you had to leave them, you’ve been uncomfortable leaving them with anyone other than family.”

It’s possible. It really doesn’t matter which threads gets pushed down and off the page on the forum. The important questions and comments still come back to shape your experience.

I leave you with a photo of the newest member of our family, Rog (which rhymes with “log” and not the “raj” sound that shortens the longer name “Roger”). He was given to us at the NICU reunion and he sneaked his way into our hearts immediately. My daughter has already made up a song about Rog and his diapers (potty training on the mind) while we drove home and he is firmly tucked under my son’s arm tonight.

But what is Rog? It is a question we have been pondering for the last seven hours. Is he a rabbit? A dog? My mother admonished us when we brought him over to her house for dinner and showed her the latest addition to the family, a cross-bred rabbit-dog. “Rog is clearly a rabbit!” she said indignantly, as if we were parents who had just stated our kids are this side of ugly. “Look at the place where whiskers would be if he had whiskers!” And yet, we all marveled at the elements of pug that mark his face as well. He is as if a pug mated with a rex rabbit.

Which is why I turn it over to you and your brilliant minds. What is Rog? Besides pure love in non-washable plush form?

This is the last post where I refer to them as my daughter and son. It sounds too bulky and it sounds too 1950’s-housewife-at-the-PTA (“my daughter tells me that your son wants to take her to the sock hop!”). Therefore, I will use a nickname that marks a certain month in their life–a month when these nicknames fit them perfectly. Those stories are forthcoming in due time. But for now on, I will call my daughter “ChickieNob” which is short for her longer name of “ChickieNobs Bucket O’Nubbins” and my son will simply be known as “The Wolvog.” 10 points if you can name the source.

Updated at the bottom:

Happy New Year everyone (sloshes a half-empty glass of champagne down her arm and blows a horn). Did you see the ball drop? I went to the best party (emphatically flings the remainder of the champagne into the air). It was fucking amazing! The Torah was there and like…a thousand people. Maybe two thousand or something. I don’t know. All I know is the room was packed. And I got so drunk on forgiveness. And introspection. And love of mankind. And then they told me there was a chance that I might die by fire or maybe water. What a buzz kill.

Jews really know how to throw a good party.

New Years was perhaps a little different from its January, secular counterpart. With the exception of my eyes filling with tears as Rabbi Jason intoned, “there is a new year growing in your belly,” we got through services sniffle-free. And that, my friends, is an accomplishment. It also helps if you miss the part of the Torah service that contains the passages on infertility.

And all is well that ends well with a little honey.

There has been a blogroll explosion of sorts; many new additions. Which started me thinking about new categories to split things up a bit. This idea continued when I was speaking with a cancer survivor through Resolve and she lamented not being able to easily find other cancer survivors to connect with on the infertility front. It seemed like a good place to start. A category called “More on The Plate–IF and Health” which would encompass all health issues that need to be considered or cause infertility. Cancer, but also diabetes or mental illness. Since the category would contain many different situations, I thought I would add a parentheses after the title to give some information about the blog. That way, someone with diabetes who was undergoing IVF could meet up with other IF bloggers, read their journey, trade information. If you want to be moved into this new category, let me know with an email (thetowncriers@gmail.com). I’m probably going to move a few bloggers over to this category this weekend just because this was the third time someone mentioned to me that they were seeking out advice/another person’s journey with IF and another health condition. So I guess also tell me if you wouldn’t want to be moved too…

Which brings up the question, what other categories are missing? In order to start a new category, I just need at least one blog that fits under the heading. Any types of blogs you wish you could easily find? Wish to start a new category for your own blog? Since I’m sure this will be suggested, I just want to give the explanation for why I combined IUI/IVF. While some people do IUI many times, most do the requisite three before moving onto IVF. The category would be too difficult to maintain as people would only be in the category for a few months before moving on. So, yes, it’s annoying if you’re only searching for IUI blogs or IVF blogs and you have to pick your way through each one in the category. But it’s too hard to maintain any other way.

So–when suggesting a new category, consider what types of infertility/loss blogs you search for on the blogroll. And if your blog is not one that would fall under this category, at least suggest one that does fit in order to kick off the category. If you’re also looking for bloggers in your area that you can meet face-to-face like we do in D.C., put out a message on Lost and Found stating your area and your blog url so people can get in touch with you.

Lastly, on the blog front, Bea from Infertile Fantasies has a fantastic new site. It’s called IVF Shoot ‘Em Up and it’s a collection of injectible how-to videos. Much more engaging and educational than those dry videos passed out at the clinic. You can help in many different ways. At the most basic level, you can spread the word so people know this resource exists. People can also create and submit a video–Bea has up a wish list but she’s also taking more suggestions for other medications. You can also tattoo the Shoot ‘Em Up chickie across your bicep if you’re really committed to the project. But that’s not for the faint of heart or fickle…

And now, blogging goodness…

This week brought out many posts about September 11th. Road Blocks and Rollercoasters has a beautiful post about the day called “Humbled.” She writes about the passing of time: “Where did the BBQs and parties and hanging out with friends go? Oh, yes, I remember, I spent it wishing for time to go by faster–first so I could just get through the first trimester of my pregnancy and then so I could go ahead and start TTC again after the m/c. And here I am. The middle of September and nothing really to show for the time that I spent doing lots of wishing. It’s irresponsible for me to live life this way. And yet, all I want to do is hit the fast forward button to get through this already. But I am humbled. I am humbled that I am able to fret about things like infertility and trying to have a baby while others struggle with life or death situations.” That wishing away of time is such a familiar sentiment. And in light of the day, R&R made me see it in an entirely new light.

I loved the excitement in Nica’s post this week in Life as a Sandwich about triggering. Not just her own excitement at a cycle that is going particularly well, but the sweetness of her husband. She writes: “When I did my IUIs, it was all me. I did the shots, I went with a cup the the RE. When we went to Argentina, H was far more involved, but somewhat distracted. After all, he was surrounded by family who he hadn’t seen in a decade. But this time… this time, it’s him and me. We went to IVF orientation a few weeks back, and he made a nuisance of himself. Asking more questions than every other person in the room combined. H was so confident about his medicine mixing and needle skills he gave tips to the couple to our left. He’s shy. When the drugs came, he personally reviewed and inspected them. This, he had decided, was his domain. When it came time to inject, he was ready. He spread out a clean towel and placed everything out. He was exacting, he was precise, he was lovely. Our instructions said to inject “about an inch” from the navel and so he measured. I’ve never felt so loved (and so glad to have an extra roll of fat on my belly).” I want this to work for them not just because their stats look great and damn it, hard work should pay off for everyone. But because this cycle is special. And that should count for something.

Mony at Mrs. Negative has the perfect post this wee
k about renewing her driver’s license. Every year, that renewal process is a reminder of how little things have changed on the conception front. Until this year. She is now more than halfway through her pregnancy and she writes: “It will be a genuine watershed moment. I will be renewing my 2007 drivers license during my 27th week of pregnancy. Nobody else will notice. Not the bored, waiting customers. Not the bitch behind the counter. Nor the nervous P-Plater. But I will know. And even if I walk away with the most hideous, unflattering, cross eyed photo on my license this year, nothing will veil the glorious, dazzling beauty underneath my cotton blend blouse.” I hope they allow her to keep the license (or at least the picture) the next time she has to renew.

Arwen/Elizabeth has a fantastic ode to the passing of information that takes place in the online community. She creates a list of “several products that [she] wouldn’t have known about, or known to get instead of the more common alternatives, if it hadn’t been for blogs and [her] own blog readers.” And it’s so true. Blogs have become like the backyard fence, the trading of information. Except the backyard fence stretches across the world and the information is more varied. This post is perhaps the third impetus to creating new sections in the blogroll and trying to connect more people to each other so you can glean the information you need on one hand and the support you need on the other.

Lastly, I loved this little bittersweet story from the lovely ladies at Addition Problems. May Natalie’s wish (oh…and yours too!) come true soon.

Have a wonderful weekend. And leave your suggestions (in a comment or an email) for new blogroll categories or your feelings for “More on The Plate–IF and Health” (I guess my main question is if this helpful at all….)

I’ve added a few more categories to the blogroll including

• More on the Plate–IF and Health Issues
• Clotting and Immunology
• Uterine Anomalies

If you want to be moved to any of these, let me know with an email or a comment below.

Alton Brown, celebrity chef and inadvertent infertility ritualist, advocates for pomegranates to be open underwater. He cuts a sliver off of either end and scores the pomegranate lightly from pole to pole. He then submerges the pomegranate in a large bowl of water and breaks it open with his fingers, separating arils from pith. The seeds sinks to the bottom of the bowl; the waxy skin floats to the top. Rubbish is separated from the sacred, fruit is kept while the exterior is thrown away. Opening a pomegranate feels like an analogy for tashlich.

Tomorrow is Rosh Hashanah. The new year in Judaism. Tomorrow night, technically the second night of the holiday since it starts at sundown tonight, a pomegranate is served as the traditional first fruit. Some Jews believe that the pomegranate contains 613 seeds, the same number as commandments (or mitzvot) in the Torah. As much as we groove on those mitzvot as much as the next Jew, we eat pomegranates for a different reason. We’re trying to get pregnant.

It’s a strange marker for the year and it hurts to push through that calendar turnstile again, remembering how we ate the pomegranate last year and yet are still not pregnant. Sort of makes you scornfully mutter, “it’s just an old wives tale.” Yet why did I go from food store to food store to get the perfect pomegranate? Because I really want to believe that these types of rituals help more than hurt. That they make me focus. They make me think about what I want. They make me let go of some of the frustrations of this past year and start this new year with a dose of hope.

It’s a hard holiday for an infertile woman. Services are filled with passages from the Torah about infertility–Sarah, Rachel, Hannah. It feels right to have this little space in the house, this quiet little ceremony where we eat a few arils, make a few wishes, count the blessing we do have, wait for the future ones we want.

On Friday, we’ll go down to the river for Tashlich. We’ll throw away everything we don’t want to take with us into this upcoming year. All the hurt feelings and doubts and frustrations. It’s about separating out the fruit–the heart–from the pith. And tossing away what doesn’t need to be kept. And hoping as it floats away in the river that it’s gone for good and only sweetness will be in this upcoming year.

Unlike those stupid stunt shows, this is something you can try at home. Open up a pomegranate underwater. Remove the seeds. Focus on that idea of first fruits, of creating life, of tasting sweetness. Make up your own prayer. Make up your own wish. Eat the arils alone or with your partner or sharing them with a small group of friends who all have your back. Write down your hope for the year. Reflect on it next September. Repeat the ritual again–if not for yourself, then as a hope for all the stirrup queens and sperm palace jesters still down in the trenches.

My neighbour comes over to my house. It is 7:30 at night. “Have you seen, A?” he asks, referring to his estranged wife. I saw her that morning. He starts the conversation in a light voice and it gets progressively more upset. She is not returning his phone calls, emails or text messages. He returned to his old home to find it completely empty. She moved over the weekend without telling him. A secret parting. He doesn’t know where his children are.

I don’t even know how to begin this. I could take it back to the natural start, our cells, our DNA. I spent the earliest hours of the morning dreaming about brightly-coloured, twisted ladders.