Adoption has been on my mind. In regards to my whole feeling of natural is nice. In regards to laying out a possible path in family building. I have been reading adoption blogs and talking about adoption and scouring the Internet for information. I have been making a list of books to read. I have been trying to be active without actually being active.

If we’re supposed to believe that natural-born babies are the designer purses and A.R.T. babies are the knockoffs, then what are adoption and third-party reproduction: stealing the pocketbook off the back of the truck?

And this is what bothers me: don’t you want your own child? And those words echo inside my head every time I click on an adoption information web site because I know that’s what other people are going to be thinking about my decision. And on one hand, I don’t care. And on the other hand, I care very much but I’m pretending I don’t care. And on one hand I believe that their feelings are small and insignificant and on the other hand, even if I know that their beliefs are wrong, I can’t wave them away and pretend they don’t exist. If you’re keeping count, I currently have four hands. And we’re not even delving beneath the surface yet.

Because this is how I view adoption. Adoption is a gift, possibly the largest gift that one can give and much much more meaningful than a multimillion dollar endowment. It is a designer purse that goes from your hands to mine. I’m not borrowing it. I’m not watching it for you. It’s now mine. It’s my Prada purse and I promise that I will always recognize its worth and never leave it under a table at a restaurant. And when you give me a gift, that object becomes mine. And when you give me a child, that child becomes mine. It is my own child. No less a part of me than a biological child. Just as a baby created out of third-party reproduction is no less a part of me. Once that child becomes mine, it enters my heart and becomes part of my blood just as much as a child that is entirely genetically mine that has grown inside my womb. And those are my feelings.

But I know that there are others who will never see my purse analogy–either because they don’t understand women’s fashion or they’re small-minded and have strong feelings about things that don’t affect them. And what do you do about the people who will never understand that becoming a parent is more than just genetics and biology. It is an emotional process. Giving birth doesn’t make you a mother. Being able to procreate doesn’t make you a mother. Loving and raising a child makes you a mother.

I am bothered by the “you can always adopt” comment that people flippantly offer when you talk about infertility because it’s not true. You can’t always adopt and this is something I am realizing as of late and blogging about in regards to Domar’s message of hope. Because even if you get past all of the steps, even if they judge you to be a fit parent, there is always the financial aspect biting you in the ass. At the end of the day, we’re not sure we can afford adoption and still live the life we’re living. And that’s partly the effects of secondary IF. If this was primary IF, we would probably be making different decisions. But as much as we say, “we’ll make it work,” I also know that we can’t afford to take out an adoption loan because we can’t afford to pay it back. In the same way that I’m realistic enough to know that we can’t afford a new car right now and we can’t afford to move houses.

At the beach, my husband and I engaged in one of our favourite games: which country. As in, which country do we want to choose for adoption. We haven’t outruled domestic adoption, but for a host of reasons, we’re leaning toward international adoption. I think it’s important to chart a path–you wouldn’t start driving without knowing directions to your destination, and I think it’s important to view compromised fertility in the same way. I like to know the next few steps–to know they’re in place even if we never use them. So we spend the evening throwing out countries and stating why we like the idea of the place or not. And this is based on the idea that when you adopt a child, you are forever tied to that country of origin. And we want to make sure that we are tied to a country that holds our interest so that we can do it justice when we teach our child about his/her roots.

As we drove home from the beach, I started thinking about this game and why we play it. Because it’s emotional preparation. Because it’s fun to daydream about a future child. Because it doesn’t cost anything to talk about it. Because we have the utmost respect for the adoption process (both the birth parents and the adoptive parents) and talking about it makes us feel like we may one day get there ourselves. But is it healthy? It’s not like how we talk about buying a beach house one day. If I never own a beach house, I will still be a complete person. My emotions are not tied up in owning property. But my emotions are extremely tied up in family building. And if it’s never going to be a possibility for us, I don’t want to talk about it like it will be. And maybe that’s the point of the game. To realize our own feelings about adoption and how badly we want another child. How much we would be willing to sacrifice. How much we would be willing to take an alternative path.

We are so ingrained to hold onto the idea of “natural means better” (breast is best) that some ignore the possibility that there is much good to be found on a different path. And that path isn’t a lesser path, it is just a different path.

Natural born children are the Prada purses. A.R.T. children are the Kate Spades. Adoptive and third-party reproduction children are the Gucci. All purses. None above the other in quality with the idea being that you end up with one within your means. With the understanding that a purse is a purse and it’s meant to hold items. And a parent-child relationship is a parent-child relationship (with all its joy and pain) regardless of family building methods.

I am so happy that skeins of #814 are selling out. I’m always on the lookout for other pomegranate threads. I haven’t seen one yet (with the exception of the one on my husband’s wrist, but I sort of already knew he was infertile–no big bonding moment. And the head of Resolve, but I tied it on his wrist so again, not a big surprise). I’m actually curious, how many people are wearing one right now. Add a comment to this post and let everyone know.

Paz wrote up such a great description of Operation Common Thread for a listserv we’re both on that I thought I would post it here in case anyone else has infertility or pregnancy loss listservs/bulletin boards they visit. You can cut-and-paste this message in order to spread the word.

For anyone who has ever had a miscarriage, struggled with pregnancy, and all things infertile…there is a movement upon us that you might want to join. It’s rather simple actually: a discreet ribbon on your right wrist to signal to others that they are not alone in their struggles.

As someone who has had 5 m/c but am currently 5 months pregnant (YEAH), I wonder who looks at my big belly with sadness because they are in the month-to-month struggle. I mentioned to a friend that I wished there was some secret nod or international sign as if to say, this belly was hardwon. Well, she posted this quandary on her blog (http://www.stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/) and the response has been quite overwhelming…and a movement has been born!

The pomegranate-colored thread holds a two-fold purpose: to identify and create community between those experiencing infertility as well as create a starting point for a conversation. Women pregnant through any means, natural or A.R.T., families created through adoption or surrogacy, or couples trying to conceive during infertility or secondary infertility can wear the thread, identifying themselves to others in this silent community. At the same time, the string serves as a gateway to conversations about infertility when people inquire about its purpose. These conversations are imperative if we are ever to remove the social stigma attached to infertility.Tie on the thread because you’re not alone. Wear to make aware. Join us in starting this conversation about infertility by purchasingthis pomegranate-coloured thread (#814 by DMC) at any craft, knitting, or variety store such as Walmart or Target. Tie it on your right wrist. Notice it on others. Just thought I would pass the word along!

So that was Paz’s very cool post. Get the word out there.

And another thing for newcomers since there seems to be many new people commenting on the site, if your blog isn’t already listed in the blogroll, drop me a note (thetowncriers@gmail.com) and let me know about your blog and chosen category so I can add you. I’ve been finding IF blogs left and right so the list is really growing, but it’s great when people send me an email and tell me about ones that I’ve missed.

Er…and one last piece of business. With the blogroll. There are BFP popping up everywhere but I haven’t moved anyone from their original category yet unless they’ve asked. Pregnancy after IF is rarely the carefree-running-down-the-beach-with-the-wind-in-your-hair pregnancies of the non-infertiles. So I don’t want to move anyone until they’re ready. And it takes some people three months to move and it takes other people until the baby is out of their belly to move. I wasn’t sure how people felt about this. Especially if you have expectations that a TTC blog will still be a TTC blog and then you click on it looking for information and discover that it is now a pregnancy blog. Which is a happy thing. And also a sensitive thing.

Someone tells you to “just relax” and you snarl, “then send me to the beach!” And then you get there and you realize the whole place is overrun with children and their unworthy parents. So you spend the vacation feeling like crap. And it’s the fault of the person who said, “just relax” in the first place.

And it is all their fault.

This is the reality about the beach–it is the perfect vacation for children and parents alike. Amusement parks are almost entirely geared towards kids. And art museums are almost entirely geared towards adults. But the beach gives you (1) a tiring activity that is free, (2) low-standards of cleanliness (how can one complain about a french fry landing on the floor when the entire restaurant is coated in a fine layer of sand?), and (3) natural baby-proofing. If your child pees on the sand–no problem. Changing diaper in public–completely accepted. Can you see your child for miles–yes, depending on beach umbrellas. Does anyone care if your child is making noise–no.

There are beaches geared towards adults only, but to be frank, we can’t afford them. We can’t afford the Caribbean vacations and we can’t afford to travel too far when we’re already on the east coast near perfectly good beaches. BUT…one thing we notice on this trip is that not all beaches are created equal when it comes to enticing towards parents with children. Therefore, we reveal our pick and reasons for best beach for child-freeness and ask that you add in the comments other beaches to give people ideas.

Chincoteague, Virginia is easily accessible for anyone living in the D.C. area, Delaware, or Virginia. It’s about a 3 1/2 hour drive from D.C. And this is why it rocks–no boardwalk. And no boardwalk means no rides, no french fry shacks, no ski-ball or cotton candy. Which means…well…not “no kids” but at least fewer kids. Because they’re all up the coast at Ocean City and Rehoboth. We know. We saw them back in June.

Chincoteague is a National Park which means that it’s ultraclean and ultra-loved by bird watchers and those who would wear Birkenstocks through the winter. There is a wildlife loop that you can bike or walk (or drive after 3 p.m., but that’s cheating) that closely resembles how the Disney Imagineers see the African wetlands. Which is perfect bike riding for people who own single-speed bikes with foot breaks. The beach is actually contained on the nearby island of Assateague (which is not inhabited by people–Assateague is solely protected land and Chincoteague is where you stay) and you can bike or drive to the beach. Best of all–wild horses. Literally. Wild horses just roaming around. Minding their own business.

And this is both the pro and con of Chincoteague–the whole island pretty much stops by 9 p.m. Restaurants close. There is one movie theater on the island. There is a go-cart track and miniature golf that is tucked away on the main road and easily avoidable. The two ice cream shops still contain parents keeping their children up way past a reasonable bedtime. Which means that yes, you do have to see kids if you spend your day on the beach, but at night, there is no place like a boardwalk to bring kids so the kids somewhat disappear. No beer bong shops. No t-shirt shops advertising clothing that celebrates alcoholism. So while not child-free, it is certainly more do-able than some of the other beaches on the east coast if you’re looking to avoid babies galore.

And perhaps most of all, the reason I love Chincoteague is the entire place sometimes seems like a metaphor for life. Life. With a capital “L.” This past time, we weren’t seeing any horses and I felt completely let down. We made up a ton of reasons why they weren’t about. Wrong time of day, cars scaring them away, we’re in the wrong place. And just when you think the trip will be a bust. Just when you’ve given up hope. There they are. A big herd of wild horses running across the nature reserve. And it reaffirms this idea of hope–that things can happen. And now, I need to go vomit from that last bit of mush. But…come on…there is a huge wish-upon-a-star-big-sigh-happily-ever-after side of me and there’s no point denying it.

P.S. I have all of these great pictures that I want to add and Blogger won’t let me. I’ll repost if I can ever get Blogger working again.

Back from the beach (only a mother post IF comes back from her vacation early so she can tuck in her children–but more on that thought in another post). And wading through emails and laundry. But two thoughts–one that came out of a post on “At What Cost” and one that has been nagging me.

Another point about Domar’s quote is that it assumes both people in the couple are on the same page. Either that or it assumes that you would continue on your path to parenthood alone. Someone raised the point about the first part being hopeful–a reminder that things will get better and you will not be on this roller coaster forever. I know realistically that if I had to, I would get off the roller coaster and keep living. That’s the realistic me. But the emotional me believes that if I had to get off mid-ride, I would just stop. Yes. Stop. I would just break and cease to be me anymore. A bit dramatic, but I’m always reminded of a play a friend wrote in college called The Man Who Stopped and it was about a man who didn’t die, he didn’t break down sobbing, he didn’t jump out a window. He just stopped. And that’s how I imagine those moments would be after I call the RE or put away the adoption information. I would just stop. Before my mother emails me to tell me that she’s worried about me, I will also add that I know (again, the rational me) that I won’t stop. I will wake up and still be grateful for those little A.R.T. babies upstairs. But that’s what goes through my mind when I hear this quote and I consider the idea that secondary IF may not be resolved like primary IF. Finances are different now. Eggs are different now. There is more to consider than just ourselves and that changes the decisions too. Wanting more doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful or not recognizing what a miracle it was that A.R.T. worked for us. But I do believe that the need to parent is coded in our D.N.A. and the desire is almost primal. Almost stop-worthy. As in, if you couldn’t fulfill that function, you would just stop like a computer whose plug has been yanked from the wall.

Oh…but back to my point. Which was this idea that Domar’s comment also means that both people were on the same page. And I know that couples are not always in absolute sync and it doesn’t mean that you can’t keep moving forward. But a small step behind is different than being on a whole different page. And I realized that I have no idea which way is the average for couples–are more people in relationships where both people are on the same page (though maybe a sentence or a paragraph behind) or on different pages? Because how do you overcome that obstacle? How do you leave behind a marriage for a not-yet baby? How do you stay in a marriage when there is a not-yet baby that needs to be brought into this world? How do you leave behind the not-yet baby entirely? And if you and your spouse are on different pages, how did you get on the same page? What advice can you give others from your journey?

My other thought comes from my ninja nurse practioner. When we were going through which antibiotics I could take (due to allergies), she came up with Doxycycline. And she told me not to try to conceive during the cycle that I take this because the child could be born with birth defects including black teeth. She informed me that even the adult teeth have the possibility of growing in black. Looking back at my trusty IF book (where I kept detailed notes of every blood test, injection, and procedure) I noticed that I took Doxycycline as the antibiotic during my HSG. And I was told (as I believe everyone is told) that the best time to try is right after the HSG because blocked tubes may have been opened by the dye. So which is it? Was I given terrible advice by the RE or is the NP too cautious or confusing it with a different medication? Is the birth defect factor a new detail with this drug? It’s been nagging me because…I don’t know why. Because medicine sometimes feels a little too slippery for its own good. I want black and white facts. And it feels like we’re flirting with something grey here. Grey facts. Black teeth.

More thoughts on beach vacations tomorrow when I have finished another load of laundry.

Since sometimes my T.C. tends to come early (damn that luteal phase defect!), I thought I’d throw the Friday Blog Roundup out on Thursday in its honour. Or I’m finally getting to go on a short vacation. One or the other. You decide the excuse.

Calling all males–or females with husbands who can do a write-up for Operation Heads Up… We need a bunch of write-ups for male surgeries/procedures including testicular biopsy, vasography, and varicocelectomy (plus anything else I’m missing). We also need a write-up for IM injections. Any takers? Email me at thetowncriers@gmail.com if you can write it. Click on the link for Operation Heads Up in order to see the format if you’re not familiar with it already.

Which brings us to what others are thinking about this week…

At Miss E’s Musings, the lovely Ellen discusses a conversation that crept up on her without warning–one that I discussed a bit yesterday. She and her husband have decided to set some limits, move onto a different path, and take a break while they collect themselves. And I think the synchronicity that occurs in that conversation and the admittance that they are at the end of their rope show so much strength in their marriage. It’s a hard step, one that brings with it perhaps more mourning than a negative beta. I’m wishing them a lot of clarity and I hope a new path opens for them with bright lights shining down on it. Like those big, honking, parking lot lights so you can see every step of the way.

In a similar vein, over on IVF and ICSI, they’ve decided to continue doing a few more FET cycles while they start work on an adoption from China. She has a beautiful part of her post where she talks about how they wondered if they would be able to bond to a child through adoption. But then she watched the videos of people being brought together with their child for the first time. And she realized how emotional she could get for other couples which is just a fraction of how much love is going to be pouring out of her heart during her own process. She talks about all the steps and how she will become more and more bonded to this child. And I think it’s a great post for anyone who is still in the “consideration zone.”

If you think after that last post that I am little Miss Buzzkill, check out the comment given to GZ by her nurse on GZ’s blog, Gravida Zero. I’m always a bit blown away by comments made within fertility clinics by people who work closely with those going through infertility. Day in, day out, you see people coming through the doors of your clinic in emotional pain. By this point in your career, you would think they would have at least created some pat comments of hope (I know what you’re thinking–I just said yesterday that I didn’t want happy smoke blown up my bum by Ali Domar and now I’m asking all clinic nurses to blow happy smoke up my bum). Beyond the rude thoughts of her nurse, she was “outed” by a family member. Which requires a whole different post on my end–being in or out and with whom. But all in all, a tough week for Ms. GZ. Head over there and wish her luck in the 2ww. I hope she proves that nurse wrong. If she does, I’ll send my ninja nurse practioner to kick her ass.

Lastly, over at Come Undone, the INS form and homestudy application packet is out of her hands and in the loving care of UPS. She has two posts this week about her neighbour reference–choosing which neighbour and then getting to know the neighbour better. Reading her post made me pause and think who I would use as my neighbour reference. I have one person I would consider a friend on the street. And a bunch of people I would call if there was a cricket in the house that needed capturing (I wanted to write “killing” but every cricket is a Mommy cricket’s baby. And it just feels karmically better to say “capture”). I understand why they ask for a neighbour reference, but it’s just a bit of salt in a wound if you think about it. Anyone can naturally conceive a baby or use A.R.T. without anyone vouching for their home life. But once you open the door to adoption, it becomes a system of weighing your worth. And it makes me sad. I want what is best for the kids, but it also makes me sad. And frustrated. And makes me wonder what the neighbours would say. She’s quiet. She has a small garden. She checks her mailbox around 2 p.m. every day.

Have a wonderful end-of-week. We’ll be back mid-weekend for more thoughts on infertility as well as commentary on sunburn.