One of the libraries nearby has a bookstore on the ground level. They cull out old books and sell them for about $.50 in order to make room for new books in the library. Pretty much every book I have wanted recently has ended up there. Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking? Check. The Ninth Life of Louis Drax? Check. Of course, this is where I picked up Children of Men for the current book tour.

They have an enormous children’s section. I buy the kids books there because used books don’t elicit the same guilty feelings that occur when they accidentally tear a page in a new book. These books have already been well-loved. They can withstand the effects of the twins’ intense loving without looking much different.

So let’s unpack yesterday’s purchase.

As I scanned the shelves, I grabbed a picture book called Triplets. My gut reaction when I examined my final pile of books to separate into the “buy-these” and the “reshelve-those” is that the triplet book–while extremely cute–was a bit over their heads languagewise. Yet I threw it into the buy-these pile. I felt uneasy about it, but I justified this $.50 decision by telling myself that someone in my multiples group would love it. I’d bring it to the next meeting and give it to a triplet mother.

I have to get this off my chest–I WAS FREAKIN’ LYING! It won’t be going to a triplet mom. It will be sitting on our bookshelf for the next few months. And every time Josh passes it, he will say, “didn’t you mean to give that to a triplet mother at the next meeting?”

Because this is my dirty little secret. I know a lot of people are freaked out by the idea of carrying and caring for multiples. We talk about it all the time. It’s the fear of many a woman undergoing hyperstimulation of their ovaries. How many embryos to transfer? What if we end up with twins? What if we end up with triplets?

I’m not one of those women. I felt like multiples were the only silver-lining to infertility. When I was little, I always wanted twin babies. I imagined myself with identical twin girls. So when we saw the ultrasound screen and saw the multiple sacs (three–though only two had fetal poles. The third was a blighted ovum), I didn’t freak out. It felt like an ultimate moment of peace–my reward for all the shit. I felt like I deserved twins–like it was a prize rather than a detriment.

In my twin group, so many women talk about the fact that while they would like to return to the clinic and try for a third, they won’t because they’re freaked out about the possibility of having another set of multiples and they wouldn’t want to transfer only one embryo. And that’s my other dirty secret–the one that probably gives my mother a minor heart attack. Not only am I not scared of having another set of multiples, but I would welcome them happily. I would feel like I had somehow gone from being the unluckiest (and most unfeminine) woman in the world to the jackpot winner.

I think the triplet book is like hanging a swimsuit over the scale to remind you to keep focused on the task-at-hand: losing the weight so you can fit into the suit. Maybe the triplet book is a tangible daily reminder that all the shit is worth it for the end result. Do you have something like that? Something you look at that motivates you–existing children perhaps if you’re going through secondary infertility or an empty room in the house or a onesie you bought when you first started trying?

Financially, triplets would be the end of us. But what a great story of how the ship went down.

Skip the first two paragraphs if you taped Grey’s Anatomy last night and haven’t seen it yet…

So I’m still reeling a bit from last night’s Grey’s Anatomy episode. I have to admit something–I don’t like the “thing” that makes for “good television” (and all of that is in quotes because the element of surprise is what others believe makes for good television. What I personally believe makes for good television is attractive people, interesting recipes that are completely vegetarian, and more attractive people. But I probably need to admit that I’m either watching television for the eye candy or the recipes). I don’t like my emotions being jerked around. If someone is going to die, I’m fine with them dying. Television doesn’t need to be an hour of happiness. But I really dislike the whole you-think-Meredith-Grey-is-going-to-die-but-she-is-actually-going-to-live-and-the-person-you-think-is-in-no-danger-of-dying-is-going-to-kick-it-by-the-end-of-the-episode.

So these are my predictions for next week’s conclusion, and feel free to offer up your own thoughts as a little distraction during your wait (because at any given moment, it feels like 3/4th of the infertile world is waiting for something: for a cycle to begin, for a beta to be drawn, for referral papers to arrive, for a donor to be chosen): I think Meredith will live AND she will have literally no brain damage. Everyone else in this world would have brain damage, but she will miraculously recover. BUT I also believe that either George or Burke are going to kick it by the end of the episode. I’m thinking George and that Callie is pregnant. So George will be gone, but he’ll live on still in Callie’s baby (and I will have to watch her be pregnant for the remainder of the season and I will start disliking her character because–come on–she got pregnant without trying and if George was alive, she would be questioning whether or not she should keep the pregnancy because that seems to be what all the doctors on this show do once they become pregnant). My second choices is that Burke will die which will send Christina into a tail-spin because she will realize that while he was alive and she was engaged to him, she still thought of Meredith as her closest friend and not Burke.

Whoever gets the closest guess to what actually happens will get a special prize in next week’s Friday Blog Roundup…

And I’d like to say a special thank you to my Mommy at this point. My mother can predict the unfolding of a television show or movie like no one else in this world. And since I don’t like to be surprised–ever–I often call her to ask what will happen next. And. She. Is. Always. Right. Right now, I watch two television shows each week, but I’ve only gotten her to watch one along with me and tell me what happens. I totally know who is going to be murdered on Desperate Housewives this week AND I know who commits the murder.

Hey, I figure I get enough surprises with hoohaahooterus (which is my new name for all my sexual organs AND hormone levels–I needed to sum them all up in a little package–oh, and throw in my blood clotting stuff too. And hoohaahooterus just rolls off the tongue and it sounds fun. And I am trying to think of my uterus and ovaries and progesterone and estrogen levels as a happy party in this new stage of positive thinking) that I don’t need surprises in my two hours of television watching a week.

On a final television note, a friend from college, Joley, who has been reading this blog and never knew that he would discover so much about my hoohaahooterus back when we were literary magazine editors together, wrote a book about Lost and Powell’s has him blogging about each episode afterwards (that’s the archive page where you can click and read the entire entry). If you watch this show and you love knowing all the literary and pop culture references, read his blog.

And I can’t believe I just spent that much time discussing television.

Adrienne at Max’s Mommy has possibly the funniest list of pre-period symptoms ever (go on, click on the link, it won’t hurt you). Number two is my favourite. And while I feel badly for her husband for his recently headlessness, my heart is going out to Adrienne who was home worrying through a child’s fever last night. And her more recent post shows how the hand of secondary infertility caresses every moment in a life.

Bleu at Soulbliss explores grief in a post this week called “Good Grief.” She lost her pregnancy last week and she could use the additional support right now. I think this is an important post to read for anyone who is currently grieving. Or who has grieved in the past. Or who possibly might grieve in the future. In other words, all of us. I love her final lines: “I am getting through it. I have moments of deep gripping, soul crippling pain, and I have moments of relative normalcy. I have all of it, and it is simply that part of life none of us can escape.”

Demented Delusions has an entry this week about the now-infamous Starbucks cup that I hadn’t heard about until I read her blog. I’m really being pulled in several directions with this: (1) the word desperate shows a strong bias, (2) when I go into a clothing store, I want an article of clothing. When I go into a Starbucks, I want a drink. When I open up the newspaper, I want to read opinions and news. I do not need any coffee while I’m shopping for shirts and I don’t need opinions on the side of my cup when I’m going to get a drink, (3) in a world that brushes infertility, adoption, et al under the carpet, I like that they are opening up a conversation and not adding to the invisibility, and (4) if she had not directed her comments towards those experiencing infertility but rather towards the entire world, I would actually like the sentiment. She just needs to remove the first sentence entirely from the quote. So four directions.

I really love this post on The Waiting Game about secondary infertility seen through the eyes of a three-year-old. Just love it. Also, head over and vote for the Irish Blog Awards because she is nominated for three.

I had chills go down my arms and I had a good cry last night when I read “Creation” on Paper Pregnant’s blog: an ode to her daughter Ava, who died at 36 weeks, on the anniversary of the day she was conceived. It takes you through the miracle of that conception to the heartbreaking conclusion. And it’s just a gorgeous post.

Elan Austere did a gift exchange with a pomegranate theme with six other women. And she posted her pomegranate paintings on her blog. And they’re beautiful. Looking down at my pomegranate-coloured thread as I type this.

I’ll finish off with some good, bizarre fun. Liana at Welcome to the Dollhouse has this really funny post this week called “How Smart is Your Foot?” I couldn’t get my foot to stop switching directions. Go to her blog and try this exercise. But while you’re there, also read her most recent entry about Amazon.com and their baby registry. It’s one of those incidences where whoever created the computer program for the registry did so with a narrow scope of paths to parenthood. But perhaps with enough people explaining the actual needs of the people utilizing the registry, they will work to change this policy. At least, that’s what I’d like to hope. So start writing and calling.

Quote from Variety from the director of the film version of Children of Men (thank goodness we’re reading the book…)

What could have been a mere sci-fi thriller turned into a subversive bit of
agitprop in the hands of director-screenwriter Alfonso Cuaron.

“I couldn’t care less about infertility, because that goes into the
realm of science fiction,” he says of his film “Children of Men,” in which only
one woman on earth is pregnant. “But I saw that infertility could be a point of
departure to explore the themes that I cared about” — themes such as
immigration, terrorism and paranoia.

Um…remind me not to give you my $8 to see the film version. Since…you know…you couldn’t care less (really? You’re at the very bottom of care? There’s no way to care about it less?) about infertility and it’s just science fiction… I understand how quotes can be twisted when they are taken out of context, but I can’t imagine where this quote would fit where it wouldn’t be dismissive and glib.

Read the post below to see how to participate in the book tour. Screw Cuaron–read the book instead of seeing the movie.

Okay, it’s 19 barren bitches and one…what is the male version of not being able to procreate? It’s not sterile because a man can produce sperm and still not be able to fertilize an egg. I mean, barrenness is about not having a baby within your womb. Starting out a post about the book club has thrown me into linguistical dilemma. What is the male equivilent to a barren bitch? 10 points to the person who coins this new term…

You know that whole theory about “breaking the pee seal?” Well, Josh has urinated for men everywhere by joining the group, making it safe for other men to join along. Can we do something co-ed for once? I mean, we follow you guys back into the sperm palaces and make phone calls to your urologist for you–can’t you join our book club?

Regardless, we now have 20 people signed up for tour #2 of the book club. For people who have no idea what I’m talking about, read the post here: Barren Bitches Book Tour.

So, it’s an online book club. Where you don’t have to clean your house because no guests are arriving. And you don’t have to bring a potluck dish. And you don’t even need to change out of your pyjamas. You just have to post. On a certain day. And read everyone else’s post. And leave a few comments. Simple.

Anyway, we’re now up to 20 people which means at least 20 questions posted February 28th. Everyone will pick 5 questions to answer from the big list, so there will be a lot of variation on all the different blog entries.

I’m repeating all of this because there’s still two weeks left if you want to run by the library or your nearest bookstore and join along. There’s actually almost three weeks left since the post won’t go up until March 5 (so you could always make up a question when you’re halfway through with the book and then continue reading). So join in for this one, or if Children of Men isn’t your cup of tea, consider joining the next book tour (the best part of an online book club–only join for the books that interest you).

Actually, people should start throwing out ideas for the next book tour. I figure if we’re discussing this current one in March, we should plan the next one to post around the end of April/beginning of May. But in order for people to get on library waiting lists or comb the used bookstores, I thought we’d start throwing out ideas and cement the next book in the next week or so.

So, throw out ideas–whatever you want. Fiction or nonfiction. Since we’re all barren bitches (and barren is, of course, broadly defined since there are many lovely ladies on the blogroll who are doing treatments, but are not necessarily infertile. Or who have adopted or are adopting. Well, you get my point) and will bring that unique point-of-view, I think we should still kick it with books that bring up the topic of infertility or pregnancy loss. Not necessarily the entire focus of the book, but at least a part of the book.

Therefore, I throw out these two ideas for voting (and add other book ideas to this short list):

Waiting for Daisy by Peggy Orenstein
The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

Just click on the title to learn more about the book.

When we get a few more books, we can vote and even set the next two or three book tours well-through the summer and into the fall. See–a book club that you can even do from your summer vacation since all it takes is a quick blog entry to participate.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

I don’t actually celebrate Valentine’s Day, but if I did and if there wasn’t a layer of ice on the road preventing me from getting to the nearest CVS, I would be eating conversation hearts and cutting out paper hearts. I’m actually pretty big into holiday celebrations. But not Valentine’s Day, for whatever reason.

I think Valentine’s Day is sort of like New Year’s Eve–you can never make plans that are good enough to fit your expectations of a perfect holiday. And I’ve had a bunch of crappy boyfriends in my past, therefore, it doesn’t matter if I am currently happily married. Those boyfriends sort of spoiled the holiday by being their crappy selves on February 14th. So somewhere during grad school, I dropped all pretense of celebrating the holiday. Josh and I exchange cards, but I’m anti-flower, anti-boxes of chocolates.

Let’s talk about those sucky ex-boyfriends for a moment, shall we? And I promise, I can relate this to infertility. Because, my G-d, have you noticed how I can always bring it back to my uterus?

I was thinking about an ex-boyfriend last night as I drove home. I had a memory surface that I had forgotten about for years. There was a car that had pulled over to the side of the road and it had its lights shining on the snow. Other cars were slowly driving past it and it suddenly made me remember a snow storm many years ago.

I was going back to college after a break at home. I had a flight to Chicago and another that would take me to Madison. But when I landed in Chicago, I learned that the connecting flight was cancelled due to a snow storm and there wouldn’t be another flight out until the next morning at the earliest. I panicked because I had never been stranded before and I didn’t have the money for a hotel room.

And a stupider reason: my current boyfriend was living in Mexico and we had a standing weekly phone call scheduled for that evening. If I missed the phone call, I wouldn’t be able to talk to him for a week and it wasn’t possible to get a message to him saying that I wasn’t going to be able to make it to a phone that night.

I admitted that it was a stupid reason.

A woman who was standing nearby told me that she and her husband were going to rent a car and drive to Madison. And I was welcome to join them. And since I really wanted to make that phone call and since I didn’t want to be stuck in Chicago overnight, I went along with them even though getting in a car with strangers goes against every impulse in my extremely cautious personality. Also in the car was a fellow student from Kansas who had been in one of my introductory English classes three years earlier and a businessman who had flown out to Chicago for a meeting, discovered it was cancelled and then couldn’t get a flight back out of the city. How much does that suck?

It took 6 hours for the five of us to drive what is normally around a 2 or 2 1/2 hour trip. This was due to the storm–the one that aeroplanes couldn’t get through. The highways were icy and snow-covered. Other people pulled over and we passed cars giving up at rest stops or trucks pausing on the side of the highway. But we kept moving along in this little-car-that-could. We did stop at a rest stop for coffee and at the woman’s suggestion, we each inserted a quarter into a prize machine and gave each other a small tangible gift to remember our stupidity that evening. I wish I still had that plastic toy–I don’t even remember anymore what it was–because it would fit perfectly into the Bad Boyfriend Box (but more on that in a moment).

I got back to Madison in one piece and we all marvelled at the miracle of it. The little-car-that-could somehow got us through the snow where other trucks and cars had failed and had to pull over. It had been a rockin’ adventure. And I never saw those five people again.

I got in the apartment, called out a hello to my roommate and dove for the phone. I was about a 1/2 hour late. And that is all the boyfriend focused on when we finally spoke. He wasn’t impressed that I drove 6 hours and walked home with a suitcase through snow up to my knees (and that I was still standing in my wet jeans since I had called him before I could change). Or that I had placed that phone call–and in actuality, him–before everything else. It was one of the straws that broke the camel’s back. Along with a host of other, similar straws.

When we broke up, I took most reminders of our relationship and threw them in the trash. But I took a few and put them in this big, blue, plastic box. I worked backwards and added a stuffed animal from an early boyfriend and set of fake dog tags from another and pictures and cards. Everything I had left over from past boyfriends was culled out from their hiding places and placed inside this box. It became known as the Bad Boyfriend Box.

Throughout grad school, I added to the box. Not everyone I dated ended up in the box–only those who were either particularly shitty or who showed a foible in my own decision-making process or who served as a turning point or a life-lesson. A memento of each went into the Bad Boyfriend Box.

That box is currently in the basement and this is why I keep it even though I will never add to it again. It wasn’t for me. I thought it was for me at first–I thought I was keeping it because I needed to remind myself of bad decisions. I needed to remember my history and make better choices. But somewhere along the way, I realized that I wasn’t saving all of that crap for me.

Kris at Baby Proof wrote this week about her own box (read her gorgeous post by clicking here) and I commented on my Bad Boyfriend Box over there, which is what brought about this post in the first place.

It hit me why I was keeping the box early on during grad school. I had just broken up with a boyfriend and I got on a bus and went down to New York to meet my father who was there for a business trip. And when I got off the bus, I saw my dad waiting for me and I started crying and I told him, “a boy hurt me very badly.” And he comforted me by telling me his own dating stories. And somehow he found his way to my mother and I would one day find my way to my own husband.

I keep the box for the day that my daughter comes home and tells me that someone has hurt her very badly. I will take out the box and she will see all the stumbles and falls and twists and turns that brought me to her father. That I made mistakes. And I chose the wrong people. And I had my heart broken. And time went by and now I’m in a different space. I want her to remember that there will be good spaces in the future when she’s in a bad place. We always seem to be aware that there is the possibility of a bad space in the future when we’re currently experiencing something good (how many stirrup queens have become ill with worry during a coveted pregnancy because they spent the nine months worrying they would lose the baby?), but the opposite doesn’t hold true.

She needs to remember that one day, there will be a right turn that will bring her to someone who will love her intensely. I won’t be able to tell her when that will be, but it will most likely happen if that is where she wants to dedicate her energy. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a strong possibility. And when she meets that person, she will create the next generation. She’ll have her own daughter–either gestationally or through adoption–and she will also create her own box. And that box will show her daughter the bigger picture just as she got to see the bigger picture and the map of the journey through my box.

What I said to Kris about her Baby Box and the pain it is causing her now and why she keeps it (and perhaps even why she keeps it semi-hidden): I think you keep the box because you know that one day you will have a child. And that child wil
l be having a crap day and will say something like “I wish I had never been born” or “I wish you had never adopted me” or any combination thereof. And you will take down the box and you will show that child how desperately DESPERATELY that child was wanted. And all the wrong turns and stumbles that brought you to that child. And that child will learn something huge that day. And that child will carry that love forward to another generation.

Because that’s what I believe this Valentine’s Day. That our kids–and by our kids, I mean the collective generation of children raised by stirrup queens and sperm palace jesters–will know how much they were wanted. They will know that their parents waited a long time to be brought to them and their parents went through twists and turns and stumbles and falls to find them. That it wasn’t an easy choice–it was a deliberate choice. There may have been loss along the way, but their parents kept trying to find them. And that they are so loved. They are so wanted. They are unique and special and wonderful. And they will bring all of that love forward to the next generation–hopefully not with a Baby Box; hopefully it will be easy for them. But they’ll know what it’s like to be so wanted and they’ll know how to show that to another person in the future.

Those are just my thoughts because I think there are more than two of us who have these types of boxes…