Preparing for Pesach can be a little bit like infertility sex.

But before we get to that, I need to say that Pesach cleaning was kicking my ass.

Notice the was.

Mrs. Type-A has decided to take a new approach to Pesach cleaning.

Wait…let me back up for the non-Jews. Before Pesach (also known as Passover) each year, you go through the house, cleaning thoroughly and removing everything that is chamatz out of the house. Chamatz breaks down into two categories. The first category is anything made from fermented grain (for example, flour). The second category is anything that has the power to ferment other dough (for example, yeast or sourdough starter). So you take out your Costco-sized box of goldfish crackers and the bagels that you’ve packed into the freezer and you get rid of it. You eat it or you donate it (and the point of this post is not to give you the intricate details of dealing with chamatz, so I’m just going to throw out the comment now that there is more to dealing with chamatz than this, but I’m simplifying it because I’m assuming that I am not your source for all things Jewish).

Growing up, I loved Pesach as a holiday. It’s a little hard for a vegetarian since you eliminate most of the grain food group, but I liked getting together with family. Pesach hit its peak for me in college. We threw huge non-denominational seders in our apartment. My roommate and I would become giddy over our cleaning schedule–two Type-A girls in heaven with a bucket of bleach and a toothbrush to clean between every tile in the bathroom. I liked that process of turning over my kitchen and getting rid of food I wasn’t going to eat and reorganizing. Pesach practically spoon-feeds cleaning orgasms to a Type-A personality.

But once I got married, Pesach sort of changed into a cesspool of stress that grew little by little over the years. First it was the balance of family–where do we go for the seder (the ritual meal)–your family or mine? Prior to marriage, it was a no-brainer. There was only one family to consider. But add in Josh’s feelings and the feelings of everyone else in his family and mine and we had to think through how we were going to handle Pesach year after year.

Then came the first round of infertility. I think there are many similarities between how Christians celebrate Christmas–family coming together, many expectations, a focus on children–and the way Jews celebrate Pesach. It’s a big family holiday. And I have a big family. We would go to the seder and people would ask us when we were going to have children and cousins would pass around their sonogram pictures. I would try to keep myself from losing it during the service when we read aloud about the “barren women of Jerusalem.” What about the freakin’ barren women of Maryland? When would they be “a happy mother of children” (psalm 113)?

And finally, the burden of turning over the house (in other words, removing the chamatz) as life simply became too busy. It became one more chore that I dreaded–one more thing that I had to do on a long to-do list. I still did it every year, but it wasn’t with the lightness and satisfaction that came from cleaning with my college roommate. It was with a heaviness and a franticness and an anxiousness. Would I finish in time? Did I do a good enough job? Was someone fucking up all of my hard work by eating noodles in a kitchen that I just cleaned?

And I have to admit, I was dreading Pesach this year. I started worrying about Pesach months ago, and the stress has only grown as the holiday loomed closer and closer. I didn’t know how I was going to do work, volunteer, parent and set-up for this holiday all at the same time. I spent Saturday morning organizing and I ended up snapping at everyone, especially Josh who snarkily told me that it was truly about getting the chamatz out of our hearts and not the chamatz out of our home. It really doesn’t help when you’re about to have a nervous breakdown and your husband is smiling and saying, “what chamatz are you holding in your heart, chamoodi?”

Hmmm…what is fermenting in my heart at the moment?

There is definitely a big pile of floury hope. And if you make a well in the center and start pouring inside the salt that has been rubbed in open wounds and the yeasty froth of anger that I feel towards some people and the slickness of oil as I slip away from certain friendships–I believe you form some type of bready mixture that is most definitely chamatz.

Out it must go.

As I tottered on the edge of a breakdown, I spent precious cleaning minutes at the computer googling the rules of Pesach cleaning. And discovered that while it is certainly nice to have a bathroom so clean that you can eat off the bleached tiles, it was never necessary nor a part of the Pesach cleaning ritual of removing chamatz. This idea from an article on Pesach cleaning drove the point home:

One important point: If you feel like going beyond the limit and scraping the walls and ceiling, go right ahead. Of course it’s not required, but the halacha is actually stated in Shulchan Aruch that no one is allowed to laugh at you. In the words of the rabbis, Yisrael kedoshim heim — “Jews are holy” when they go beyond the letter of the law.

Be careful, however, not to go so far that you develop an antagonistic attitude toward Passover. If all this extra, non-required cleaning is going to make you dread the holiday, then forget about it. And certainly you should not clean so much that you’re exhausted for the Passover Seder. Part of being “holy” is appreciating the holiday, too!

In other words, when it ceases to be enjoyable anymore, you should regroup and find the balance.

There are still certain things that must get done–turning over the kitchen, for instance. I need to go through the cupboards and the refrigerator and remove all the cookies and crackers. I need to clean and put away the chamatz dishes. But if I don’t get to bleach every bathroom before I head out to the first seder? I guess it just won’t get done.

It does bear a striking resemblance to what the East Village Mamele calls the Baatan Sex March. The sex that replaced the lovemaking that occurred in the first two or three months of trying. Determined sex. Strategic sex. The kind that is just no fun at all. But how do you grab back the happiness when it gets to this point? How do you keep conception from becoming such a cesspool of stress that it sucks you under to the point where you can’t even enjoy new motherhood when it happens because you’re still trying to swim your way out of that slime? And is it even possible to cut back and do the minimum to preserve sanity when your emotions are so deeply entrenched in the process? I’ve read about people who have set up breaks for themselves–not medically-prescribed breaks, but self-prescribed emotional breaks–and I want to learn how to do that. How to take the Baatanness out of the sex march and make it have the lightness and giddyness that existed in the first few months. Okay, perhaps you can never go back to the giddyness, but you can probably get back to a point where sex doesn’t feel like a chore that you’ve scheduled on the calendar. Where it goes back to being fun instead of something that feels semi-superfluous considering all the real work is performed by the RE.

In other words, I think I need to spend some time removing the chamatz from my hoohaa.

As for the chamatz I’ve already identified in my heart? Perhaps this week would be bette
r spent reflecting on how to clean that up before the holiday begins. Perhaps there is more googling to be done while I eat through the rest of the crackers in the cupboards. Or I’ll just have to save that chamatz for another year. I mean, there are only so many crevices a girl can clean in one week…

In the middle of Jennifer Aniston’s divorce from Brad Pitt, he posed for a W Magazine spread with Angelina Jolie (which, according to the W Magazine website was his concept) where they appear like a typical 1960’s family complete with backyard kiddie pool and teased hairdos (and somewhat inexplicably, a set of identical triplets). There are the “family” shots, but also several more suggestive ones including one where Angelina Jolie is in a pre-mount position and Brad Pitt has both hands sliding into his pants.

In a Vanity Fair interview after that W Magazine spread broke along with paparazzi photographs of Brad Pitt with Angelina and Maddox all playing happily, Aniston said her famous quote: “There’s a sensitivity chip that is missing in Brad.”

She pointed out the difference–his actions aren’t hateful. He isn’t trying to rub it in her face. It certainly isn’t his fault that the paparazzi documents his every move therefore, unlike most women getting divorced who don’t need to see their ex’s daily life, making these images impossible to escape. It’s just that sensitivity chip.

And I think the frustrating thing is when you see that a person can be sensitive. At least, to people and situations other than your own. Maybe they’re like Brad Pitt, touring the world to help others in need and rebuilding homes after Katrina and being a great father, but they can’t seem to be sensitive to the people close to them–the ones who are part of their daily life such as his wife at the time, Jennifer Aniston. Or they’re a therapist by profession, helping AIDS patients, but they can’t reach out and be thoughtful to their own family. Or they’re raising thousands for cancer research, but completely ignore their friend with cancer who could use some company or a home-cooked meal. It’s that sensitivity chip.

And when asked about the photos that appeared in Us Weekly of Pitt, Jolie and her son, Maddox, romping on an African beach, as well as the photo spread in W magazine where Pitt and Jolie played house, Aniston responded, “There’s a sensitivity chip missing in Brad.”

“It was a huge shock to Jennifer,” Bennetts said. “It’s not like she didn’t know a relationship was developing, but seeing the instant family Brad created with someone else was excruciatingly painful for her.”

And it’s hard to be upset because we can’t be sensitive to everyone and everything at all points. It’s impossible to go through life without hurting another person. And there is a huge difference between doing something maliciously and doing something thoughtlessly. But why do we overlook the people closest to us when reaching out to others beyond our circle? How can we emotionally hurt someone like a soon-to-be-ex-wife and not think through those actions, but have the forethought to be able to consider how best to send help in a crisis situation in another part of the world?

I was having dinner a few nights ago with three other friends. Girl A is not pregnant. Girl B is about six months along and showing a lot. Girl C had been pregnant, but immediately told us when we sat down at the restaurant that she had miscarried at 8 weeks. After we had spoken about her loss, Girl A turned to Girl B and said, “but how is your pregnancy going, pregnant lady?” And it felt like someone had thrown all the sensitivity chips into the salsa (or, in this case, the sushi). How could Girl A, a thoughtful woman who raises money for many causes and reaches out to so many people through her charity work, not think through how those words might cause Girl C to feel? It’s not that we had to ignore Girl B’s pregnancy–at six months, it’s hard to ignore–but to not follow the first news with an update about the baby kicking might have been nice. Or to not call Girl B “pregnant lady” when asking for the update would have been thoughtful. Or to allow the person who just had to convey bad news the opportunity to move the conversation forward onto the next topic–whether she chooses to ask about Girl B’s pregnancy or to turn the conversation to workplace woes for a moment in order to create the breather between the two conversations.

I had been reluctant to go out to this dinner in the first place. Something had been bothering me before I went to the restaurant. Getting in the car afterwards, I was immediately reminded of this quote by Jennifer Aniston. And the lack of chips. Which may have been obvious since we were out for Japanese and not Tex-Mex. But those internal chips–the ones that allow us sometimes to only see the greater world and not the lens to carefully observe those close to us.

Maybe you were trying to read my blog Tuesday night around…oh…let’s say 11 p.m. and you were wondering why you were looking at a blank screen with only a blogging chicks icon and a technorati box. The reason for the lack of entries is because I accidentally deleted my blog. And then scrambled back through old screens to discover that the change was indeed permanent. And my blog was gone. All my entries were gone. The sidebar was gone. All the Operation Heads Up write-ups and emoblopedia links and the peer infertility counselor list. All gone.

This is the point where I tell you that I immediately started gasping, said that I was going to vomit and went into hysterics. And this is also the point where I tell you that after two hours or so of work, my brilliant and calm husband was able to reload most (if not all) of the blog. And this is also the point where I give you my public service announcement.

Fellow Bloggers, if you are making a change to your template (such as, perhaps, deleting a chunk of code) please use the preview blog function before you click on the button that saves changes to the template. Once you click save, you apparently cannot unsave. If I had used this button, I would have seen that I was about to accidentally delete my entire blog by erasing my template and I would have gone back in and corrected this situation. Please please please do not be cocky like me when you actually know nothing about computers.

Secondly, if you love your blog like I love my blog, you will go into your template, highlight all of the code by choosing “select all” and then copy it to a Word document. You will always resave this Word document any time you make changes to your template. This way, if you ever accidentally delete your template, you can reload the code easily.

Lastly, consider cutting-and-pasting all entries into a Word document as well. You can never be too careful if you have a trigger finger like mine.

Tuesday night, I was trying to keep emotions in check as well as control the urge to vomit. I kept telling myself that it was only a blog that was lost–not a person. It was simply a bunch of words. And about 3/4th of a year of work. But a blog nonetheless. And losing the words didn’t mean that I lost the memories. I still knew everything I had thought these last 9 months (9 months!). But not having that record? Well, it made me want to vomit.

All is well that ends well. We got into bed around 1 a.m. with the blog mostly in place. And I’ve been checking links for the past few days. And slowly adding in new emoblopedia entries which for whatever reason take a longer time than I thought to do. So forgive me if it takes me a day or two to get up your entries. And keep sending links to your great posts. Because there is no such thing as modesty when it comes to the emoblopedia. All posts are great posts–from the simple two-line entry announcing another negative and the desire to crawl into bed to the three-part posts about a friendship that was almost lost and then rebuilt.

And I’m still commenting. And delurking. All week long. Even if it’s a simple–hey, that was just a great post.

Where has all the banter gone? All the warm hugs or agreement or disagreement or assvice or name-calling? The acknowledgment that a warm-blooded person has taken in your words with their eyes and processed them inside their brain? I just read this fantastic, emotional post about a last loss on Tina’s blog and there were only three comments (okay, by the time I post this, there may be more, but if there isn’t, go over there and comment!). Three comments! There had to be more than three readers. And how can you read something that emotional and not reach out with a little virtual hug?

And I’m admonishing myself too! I’m guilty of reading and fleeing. Of laughing and then clicking the mouse to go onto the next blog without telling the writer that I was snickering over her entry. Or bawling my eyes out, but not letting the writer know how much their words affected me. We think that it’s not important to leave a comment, but like the subtitle of the emoblopedia suggests, blogging is interactive. Half of the job is completed by the writer and the other half is completed by the reader.

I am declaring this upcoming week Comments Week. From today until next Friday, send out the love. Read fewer blogs if you have to but comment more. Let people know that you’re reading them. It can even be a Dick Cheney-like flat response of “I am reading you. I enjoyed this. Grrrrrr.” But at least acknowledge that you read the words and they went through you–even if they were sort of the emotional equivalent to Olestra.

It’s spring. It’s a time for love (is it a time for love? It just feels like spring could be a time for love). Send some love. Send a little hug. That could be your whole comment: “hug!” Agree with someone. Or disagree respectfully with someone. Or send a little “is everything okay” note to a blogger like Smarshy who hasn’t written in weeks and we’re supposed to believe that he’s “busy” with this “class” when we all know that he’s watching Teletubbies on the sly. And placing the blame on the Buggins.

Oh…and look…here are some blogs where you can send the love!

On the topic of emotional posts about loss, Annie at Pink Line Chaser is currently going through a loss right now. She could use a virtual hug. At the same time, read her post this week, “Figures.” She asks: “You know those moods where you just want to pick a fight with someone just to fight? Or you are frozen into inaction by malaise or apathy? Yeah. I’ve got both going on. Those feelings are so familiar–you can’t help but nod your head in agreement.

Avonlea has this achingly beautiful post about being in a state of pre-spring–of being simply the leaves with the bulb still underground waiting to emerge. My favourite part of the post is this gorgeous thought: “The problem I have – the root of it – is staying. Staying with my feelings, staying in the moment. Feeling. Being. Procrastination helps me avoid all of that. But I have finally gotten to the point where the pressure and anxiety of avoiding are too high and I must confront it all and deal with it. So I’ve begun pushing through that dirt that’s piled up high on my head. I’m making in roads, but I’m not there yet.” Isn’t that amazing? Well, don’t just sit there nodding your head; go tell her (by fuck, I’m demanding today)!

Sara at Of Course You’ll Get Pregnant has a post called “Owwww, My Nipples” this week. And if that’s not enough to get you to go over there in nipple empathy, this line should send you clicking: “I’ve already POAS (positive – so the trigger shot did make its way into my system) and put it under my pillow for luck. How ridiculous is that?” I don’t know why; I just love the idea of sleeping with a pee stick under the pillow. Now I’m sure Josh would put down his foot at bringing urine into the bed (even if the stick is capped), but if I tucked it between the bed springs and the mattress and he didn’t know?…

Watson of My Dear Watson has an amusing/informative 3 part video about mixing and preparing meds (though she stops short at showing you the injection). If you’re about to start injections, it might be helpful to see and if you’re already a seasoned pro, you might still want to watch for advice on what to do with all those vial tops.

Dianne at Flutter of Hope has a great post that really put into words a relationship that I have (and I’m sure that most people have someone like this in their lives). You could be on the same side of the field, working together and empathizing together, but instead you’re separate in your emotions over infertility. She writes: “What hurts, is that she can’t recognize that if she is in pain, I must also be in pain. Instead of being on our own corners of pain, we could be bonding over it. We could be commiserating over the feelings of being left behind, our longing for a wanted child which may never come, and our sadness which is my infertility.”

Liz, who wrote the Infertility Survival Handbook as well as the adoption book that we read for the first book tour has started her own blog! Read along and go welcome her into the blogosphere as she considers whether or not to return to the clinic to try treatments again.

Lastly, Kim at There’s Weenie Juice on My Cookie (how can that not pique your interest?) has a post this week that is just plain fun. Head on over and read about the amazing feats of werewolf sperm.

So go comment this week. Keep track of how many comments you write. Congratulate yourself at the end of the week for making however many bloggers feel better (um…the point is to make them feel better–so no mean comments allowed) by letting them know that their words have made a difference in your life.

Oh…and while you’re out there commenting, tell people when you think a post should go into the emoblopedia. Just cut-and-paste: “hey, this would be great for the emoblopedia! Send a link to this post to thetowncriers@gmail.com and Melissa will add it. Just let her know which category–or start a new one.”

Or something like that…

Last night, I dreamed that I was on Oprah. But I had to multitask so I could complete my film for the International Infertility Film Festival in time. So I brought a laptop on stage, and I was sitting in one of her squashy chairs, talking about my hoohaahooterus and colouring in pixels by hand (a side note–in real life, for some reason, my Microsoft Paint program sometimes makes me go in and add colour pixel by pixel. Which is what I was doing for two hours last night before bed).

Me: Yes, Oprah, one of the problems facing most stirrup queens is the lack of fertility treatment coverage. If insurance would cover injectible medications in the same way they cover Viagra, IVF would be accessible to many more people.

Oprah: (imagine her words in that Oprah sing-song like voice where she gets louder and softer and her voice rises and falls without any meaning) Weeeeeeeeeeeeell, Melissa…We. Have. A. Surprise. For. You. IVF is currently one of my favourite things! FAVOURITE THINGS! And to celebrate how much I love IVF, we are going to pay for the 4-tries, shared-risk program at your fertility clinic! Aaaaaaaaaaand, we are going to pay for 10 more stirrup queens to get KNOCKED UP!

Me: (furiously adding colour to the pixels and not even looking up at Oprah) This rocks. Thank you so much Oprah.

At this point, everyone is looking under their seats in the audience and they’re pulling out filled syringes.

And then I woke up.

Oprah is buying me 4 tries at IVF at my clinic.

She loves IVF just like she loves croissants from Williams Sonoma and Lovely by Sarah Jessica Parker.

I think this is the point where I need to reiterate that it was a dream or Oprah’s List Keepers hunt you down and threaten you for infringing on the purity of The List.

I will leave you with these stills from my submission to the International Infertility Film Festival (which starts March 31st). Even though I have no musical abilities and I’ve never made a cartoon, I told Josh that we needed to do a musical cartoon. I thought, the harder the better.