Wondering About the Man Who Takes my Money and Leaves Me High & Dry

On my last visit to the RE office, I had a bit of time to kill in the waiting room. Which is suprisingly odd, as the practice seems to run with amazing efficiency. In browsing through the plethora of periodicals, discarding Time & Newsweek in favor of something sure to titillate me, I settled on a popular glossy entertainment magazine.

Before I was even able to get to the page that told me why "Brittany Is So Excited To Bear Kevin's Baby" and "Is Brittany Having Twin Boys?", I was stopped by the address label in the lower right hand corner.

I've found, in visiting many doctor's offices, health clubs, etc., people tend to tear their own address labels off before donating the magazines to the greater good of a waiting room. This one had label intact, and yes, it belonged to my RE's wife. Or daughter, who knows.

At that point, I'd never really thought about his life outside of the office, and more importantly, beyond treating me. I'd seen a photo of he and his wife, framed on his bookshelf, but never gave it more than a passing glance.

I conspiratorially memorized the address on the label, which was easy, because one of the words in the address could be twisted around to resemble another word that refers to sex. Of which I do not remotely associate with Dr. M.

I was certain that he must live in the fanciest of fancy neighborhoods, decorating his house and buying fancy cars with the dollars that J and I shell out month after month. I'd imagined all sorts of lavish living, overzealous spending, and other eccentricities. Early in our relationship, I'd already spent hours Googling Dr. M to no avail. No info, few articles, lots of referrals to his website, but overall zilch.

When I returned home after yet another unsuccessful procedure, I went straight to MapQuest. And imagine my surprise when I found that he lives in a lovely, but not over-the-top neighborhood. I was kind of disappointed not to find out more scoop.

Maybe when I do a drive-by...

Living Life Out Loud

My regular morning trip for a deceive skim latte {oh how I miss the caffeine high of days past!}, wasn't the usual generic experience it is every work day. Or perhaps my eyes were wide open this morning and I actually paid more attention to my surroundings, instead of just going through the motions.

Typically, a counter person identifies me in line, acknowledges me with a smile, and when I make my way to their register, he or she practically calls out my order before it's even out of my mouth. Which makes sense, since I haven't varied the formula in a year or so. Pleasantness are exchanged, a comment on pretty earrings or the humid weather, I await my foamy drink, take a sip, and leave. Mission Coffee: Accomplished.

Today was the same, except for the very vocal woman in line in front of me. I'll call her Lucinda. All I heard at first was a one-sided, volume-amplified conversation occurring a few folks in front of me. Something about "She's out of town and doesn't know I'm coming, but I'm sure she won't mind if I stay there." Etcetera, etcetera. My local SB is usually a pretty quiet place ... people speak as though they are in an elevator, with hushed voices and surreptitious glances. People meet in twos and threes at tables, holding conversations, and folks sit alone in the comfy chairs to read the morning's news or work on term papers and reports on their laptops.

Lucinda's loud conversation continues, and she pauses to grumpily place her order, and moves on in due form. As I'm off to the side, awaiting the delivery of my drink, I take a look at her.

In this fashion-conscious coffee shop, where people come dressed in their office attire mostly, she's sweaty and scantily clad in workout gear. Long leggings, faded sports bra. Hair pulled back in a ponytail and bag slung over her shoulder.

Lucinda is not a petite woman, and is unselfconciously baring more skin than most, and more than I would in such a public place full of inquiring eyes. She's clearly been working out, in pursuit of health and well-being, something I've been too lazy to commit to of late.

There is no climax to this story, no raison d’être. I simply found it refreshing that this woman was sunconcernednd with perception, that she was happy being her loud, sweaty self in a room full opreppiepy, selconsciousus people.

Inconceivable that it could be good

There is talk {and perhaps it's me just chattering incessently to myself} about the new NBC show Inconceivable. I can't believe this show is going to even remotely resemble real life as we know it.

Certainly, in order to be a popular prime-time series, it will have to cover the stereotypical issues about fertility, infertility, REs, and infertility clinics that we frequent-visitors to those temples of baby-worship know all about from sensational tabloids and tv shows.

• How about a mix up with sperm, egg or embryo, that will result in the birth of a child clearly of the wrong race?
• Or the unwanted intervention of a mad-scientist doctor whose patients' children look so coincidently just like him?
• Perhaps a clinic full of desperate, blubbery, willing-to-do anything women whose sole purpose in life is portrayed as a desperate need to bear their husbands a son?
• Maybe they'll follow the woman, whose husband is incarcerated for murdering his wife's sister {they were having an affair}, but she desperately wants to be inseminated so as to bear his love-child?
• I know! Let's explore the world of embryo donation, stem-cell research, and other controversial topics via a group of Hollywood writers who might very well present an incredibly uneducated perspective
  

I'm not doubting that situations like this occur, and even stranger ones probably occur in yours and my clinic, I question the ability of a Hollywood team to produce a show that accurately portrays the pain, the science, the emotion, and the burden that is infertility. What about the majority of IF patients, who are just regular men and women and have the most basic desire of all - to have a family?

I know that in itself isn't very sexy, {infertility is not about being sexy, believe you me}, and regular people aren't glamorous, and stories like mine aren't always exciting, but they are real. And shows like this one make me nervous about the type of message being broadcast to a largely-comatose viewing public. A public whose beginning knowledge on the subjects of infertility, adoption, conceiving, etc. are at a scary-low-minimum to begin with.

So great - we have a show coming out with a creator who states about women: "Now they can borrow an egg or a uterus". Which I suppose is true, but sure sounds smug to me.

The Mercury news reports that "The promotional clips for the new Inconceivable, a drama set in a fertility clinic, use 3 Dog Night's "Momma Told Me Not to Come'' as a theme song." Classy, man. Real classy.

But on the other hand, the creators do have some experience in the world of fertility clinics, and appear to have some decent thoughts on the matter:

In today's cultural climate, Pennette and Goldstick are well aware that
"Inconceivable" is likely to draw some fire as it shines a primetime klieg light on a highly controversial new medical frontier. As writers, they're committed to leavening the drama with healthy doses of humor, citing as their inspiration how David E. Kelley walks that fine line even when his characters are dealing with murder cases and the like."It's too sacrosanct a subject to be irreverent, but we also can't be nonstop melodrama," Goldstick says. Adds Pennette, "Just as the doctors in this world always say, we'll have to work at finding the right balance."

I think a lot about how infertility affects my dealings with other people, and about how it will continue to affect my dealings in the future. The people who know what J & I are going through are sensitive, open to talk when I need to, and appropriately inquisitive about the specifics. But the casual conversations, the group discussions about babies that take place among young women who are all in active-baby-fever, the unknowing comments that take place in the grocery store checkout line -- these are the interactions that make me nervous. And thinking that another source of misinformation is heading out full force into the greater world scares me a bit.

I've got my comebacks ready, my standard answers to the "when are you going to have kids, already?" questions, and I feel confident in who I am and where I'm going {within reason, of course}. But I wonder about my future, should our baby be born with donor genetic material, adopted from within the US, or adopted from beyond our country. So many preconceived notitions abound, and I worry, even now, about how I'll react.

I was killing some time and enjoying myself thoroughly over at The Naked Ovary and came across the most horrifying story of a police officer's disgustingly ignorant comments about international adoption. I admire the way she kept her chin up and ignored the stupid bastard while everyone else cowered with embarrassment. How am I going to deal with a**holes like this person? With the well-meaning stranger who comments on how my baby looks just like his daddy, when I know quite well that he looks absolutely nothing like his father?

Of course,I'll watch this darn television show with baited breath and I'll probably be disappointed. Who am I kidding? I'm sure I'll be disappointed. Why can't everyone else just watch Discovery Heath documentaries like I do??

Curve Appeal

I'm a boutique shopper. For a number of reasons, primarily that I own a small business, and I believe in the importance of prioritizing local businesses before mass merchandiser whenever possible. Plus, I like different, and I like unique. This applies mostly to my wardrobe and my home, but just like everyone else, I succumb to the convenience and prices of Target as well.

I'm desperately in need of new jeans. I like the more stylish ones, and will readily admit that I have slapped down a Benjamin plus change for a great pair of duds. However, I always seem to buy them for the body I don't have. As though I'm on some sort of mind-altering pharmacological concoction while in the dressing room. I get these fab pants home, and realize they were purchased for a person who has (1) legs that are a full foot longer than my own, and (2) an ass half the size.

To that end, I now have a drawer full of brand spankin' new stylish jeans, and two pairs from more common mass-merchandisers, which I wear with religious vigor. They fit my stumpy legs, and accommodate my almost J-Lo rear end. But now they've stretched enough that they're a bit too roomy.

It's hot today, and most of my favorite boutiques are streetside shops. In my lazy state, I'm in no mood to beat the streets, so I do what 95% of Americans do, and that's hit the mall. First stop is a three-letter chain store known for their jeans. I shopped there when I was in high school and college, mostly, so I'm sure of their stock of "basics" like jeans and t-shirts. I fully expect to need to size-up my pants, due to the fact that the majority of their clientele are, indeed, still in their teens, and I have clearly passed that mark {as have my hips and thighs}.

Imagine my surprise when I find a display of jeans, promoting the new "curvy" line. Being that my biggest problem with pants is that the waistband gapes wide open while the rear is just right {or too tight}, I was thrilled - truly ecstatic - to see this section. And true to their signage and display, my regular size fit "just right" {as Goldilocks would say about her very favorite bed}, AND I could select the designated length for the legs. Of course, stumpy here had to pick "ankle" length. Although I might have been the oldest and least-hip person in the store, I was clearly the happiest and most satisfied.

A few stores down, I wandered into the "big sister" of the previous chain. You know the place - years ago they used to specialize in a safari-outback-khaki kind of look, and the t-shirts were brown with a sketched globe with the name of the store written around it. Come on, I'm not the only one to remember this, am I?

Quite possibly. But anyway, it's a staple for the nicer, more upscale and professional gear that can get me through a work week. Moving beyond the disturbing fact that 70% of the professional women in my age group have probably purchased at least one of the same items I just did, thereby thwarting my attempt to be at all original, the goods are good, and reliable. I've had the same affliction in buying slacks as I've had with jeans, so I've got all kinds of pants that just don't make it onto my bod.

So how thrilled am I to find out that this "big sister" retailer also has instituted the same "curvy lady" product line! Rock on! I find a pair of pants that I like, and proceed to purchase it in three colors. These will require a trip to have them hemmed, but all else is good.

Too good, in fact. I repeatedly sent the dressing-room girl out to get me a smaller, and again a smaller size. When I expressed my disbelief that I was fitting into a Size X, which is a full two sized smaller than my regular {and that of the jeans I had just purchased}, and asked it perhaps the sizes had been adjusted to create happier shoppers, one of the attendants confirmed that yes, I was most likely the victim of vanity sizing. Which I'd certainly heard and read about on prime-time-expose, but never seen such a blatant example of. I am certain that my tush is the same size, or larger, it was the last time I shopped at this particular institution, but alas, my size has decreased by two.

In an effort to make their shoppers happier people, feel good about themselves, and thus purchase more and more sweatshop-produced duds, they're totally pulling the wool {or in this case, cotton/poly blend} over their customers' eyes. I can't really complain, as my body image has now received a short-term infusion of goodwill.

* * *

On an unrelated note, my next stop was the bookstore, and of course I gravitated to the pregnancy/childbirth section. I found a fascinating book with incredible photographs of the entire creation, developmental and birth process. I thought I knew a lot, but one this I certainly did not know is that the cervix looks like a donut. A Krispy Kreme. I had no idea. Kind of wish I'd skipped that section.

Wrap it Up

Finally Friday. Thanks goodness. We're off to my parent's little vacation house on the water, which is a great get-away. We'd been hoping to ask some friends to come with us, but time got away during a busy week, and here we are on Friday, hoping to head down after work. We've actually spent a lot of time with my parents down there, and have really enjoyed just hanging out as the four of us. Wierd...I actually like my parents. As friends. Scary.

A few thoughts that have been floating around my head, that I need to do something with. {I'm an on-and-off yoga student, and one of the things they emphasize is to 'acknowledge' a thought when it enters your mind, and then release it, so you can keep your mind clear. This is a serious challenge to me, the obsessor. Still working on it.}

• Course of treatment in IVF. A simple question, but unclear, which makes me wonder a bit about how the rest of this cycle will go. Dr.'s instructions were for me and J to start the antibiotics as soon as they arrived. 10 days, 2 times a day. Simple. So we started yesterday. Then last night, I'm re-reading the mountain of instructions and contracts that we need to sign, and the general IVF instruction sheet says that the partner should take the antibiotics {no mention of moi} starting the same day as when I take the Lupron. Which makes sense...to clear up any possible infections before, um, making a donation. A bit of conflicting info. So I just called the clinic, and there's no nurse in the office yet. After 9 on a Friday morning? I think that's kind of odd. Or, again, it could be obsessive-me shining through.
• Conflicting emotions when pregnant? Attended a lovely baby shower this past weekend for an old friend. I was very excited, as I'd made a quilt for the soon-to-arrive baby girl, and had a few other cute gifts. And overall, mommy-to-be didn't seem real excited about anything. Not just the gifts, but about the baby in general. And I know she must be thrilled, but perhaps having some anxiety? Meanwhile, all of us non-moms are begging for details, asking her to show us here belly , talking boobs, etc. Needless to say, the men were grossed out. Big time.

The Coke is Coming *OUT* my Nose

... because I'm laughing so damn hard. I'm siting this partially because I want to share the absolute hilarity of it with anyone who happens to be reading, but also for myself to refer back to when I'm (1) in desperate need of a laugh (2) in desperate need of a reminder that not all people need to procreate. Enjoy!

Another Beginning

It’s final. We’re starting IVF as soon as the first box of meds arrives from the mail-order pharmacy. We had our consult with the doctor and with the clinic’s money-lady yesterday, and I came home with a jam-packed folder of instructions, do’s and don’ts, releases, contracts and more.

The nurse did blood draws on both J & me for HIV and Hepatitis. Apparently that’s required by law … is it so you have permission to procreate, or is it so the medical personnel can protect themselves? The next step is a ten-day regimen of antibiotics for both of us. I hadn’t heard that from anyone else who did IVF, but I guess it makes sense to clean out everyone’s system before doping us {and by “us,” I certainly mean “me” in no uncertain terms, but I’m trying to be inclusive here} up with all of the drugs that remain.

I’m not particularly scared of the drugs, as we’ve done a number of injections already. I’m not overly freaked out by the upcoming procedures, although I’m certainly rooting for being totally unconscious during the retrieval. {Not that I think I can’t handle the pain, but it’s all the other stuff that freaks me out … the noises, the sensations, etc. The only other surgical procedure I’ve had is removal of wisdom teeth, and I insisted that I be totally out. Come to think of it, I did spend the following day hugging the toilet. Hmm…maybe anesthesia's not my best bet.} I’m not overwhelmingly nervous about the outcome. I can expect disappointment, as we have in the past, and deal with it. It may not be pretty, but I can deal with it.

So why am I so freaked out in general? When I break it down into specifics, I should be feeling hunky-dorey about it all. But I’m just a ball of nerves. I think it must be the severity, the seriousness of it all. I guess I see it as the end of the road, the last resort, the last rest stop before a drive across the desert. And that is scary.

J and I talked {okay, I cried and warbled, while he talked like an adult} about how many times we want to do this, and what our plan for the “next step” is {i.e. donor genetic material, adoption, international, etc}. Needless to say, our two thoughts were different. We both parted ways in the early afternoon, and got back together in the evening, when he admitted that he saw the benefit to “my way” and why it was so important to me. Ultimately agreeing with me.

The way we think through things is so different, it’s amazing. I’ve been contemplating this next step in our lives for the past year or so. So I’ve got some long-standing opinions and thoughts on the matter. J reacts from his initial instinct and gut reaction. Which isn’t necessarily the wrong way, just a different way, and perhaps more truthful. But when I go back to my gut, and he takes some time to think through an issue, we often arrive at the same place. For now at least.

Help! Someone stole my life!

Oh, it was a gorgeous wedding. And all I could have hoped for the happy couple. Although it took place about an hour from our home, we opted to stay at the inn where it was held, along with many of our friends, to fully enjoy the weekend festivities. A spectacular and luxurious location, beautiful weather, lots of old friends to catch up with, great music, and a perfect ceremony.

All was well as we enjoyed the a great dinner and cocktail party on Friday night, a day sunning by the pool on Saturday, and then we retired to our rooms to get ready for the ceremony and reception. I’m feeling good, thinking I look pretty hot, ready to go sweat it out on the dance floor … all high on life. (Okay, I'll admit it, I was pretty high on myself too. It had been a good week, okay?)

Until I step out my door into the hallway. At that exact same time, a couple across the hall is walking out of their door as well. She’s about my height, frame, similar coloring, and similar age. SHE HAS ON THE EXACT SAME DRESS AS ME!!! I’ve been to a lot of dressy occasions in my time, and this has never happened to me, and in and of itself, it’s not really a disaster. Until…

We laugh, I go over to say hello and commiserate about the weird situation. Then the husband pipes us and says “Yep, she’s pregnant. It’s the only dress that fits her!”

The evening only gets better, as I’m surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women, and it seems to me that 90% of those in my general age group are with child. I swear, I analyzed every woman’s stomach, and they were just growing {see below} before my eyes!

Luckily, a plate of good food and few glasses of wine later (I must’ve had some sixth sense about my impending period, as I’ve been totally alchol-abstinant the whole cycle!),we hit the dance floor, chatted with friends, rocked on with the band, and had a super-fabulous evening. Ha to you, all you gorgeous glowing mommies-to-be!

* * *

On a happy side note, my kittie (who has been on a mad-crazy spraying spree all about the house) seems to be much happier and well adjusted. She’s all lovey-dovey, curl up in my lap, begging for strokes, etc. Maybe someone sent her a pretty yellow bouquet, too.

Bouquet for the blues

So sweet ... I get home this evening after another intentionally-long day at work today to find a bouquet of beautiful yellow flowers waiting right outside my front door. No, not from my hubby, who knows how down I am, but from mom and sister. The flowers were addressed to both me and J. I love it that they acknowledge that he is equally devastated. So often, the man is dismissed or thought to have no real feelings or sadness. I know that J. feels as sad as I do, but he doesn't really express it, which is frustrating to me.

Anyway, gorgeous bright yellow flowers that just scream "Be Happy, Damnit! Think Positively! Good will come to you!" Now, I just have to listen.

Obsession: Cheaper than Therapy

And no, I'm not talking about the lovely scented-stuff that I dabbed behind my ears as an eager-for-a-smooch 13 year old.

How much obsession is healthy? In all of my various resources of information and opinion, gleaned from qualified and totally unqualified sources, noone seems to answer that question, and it makes me wonder if I'm going totally whacked. Do I qualify as unhealthy and unstable because I currently have serious plans or obsessions about the following baby-related subjects?

• The special way I will tell J that yes, indeed we are pregnant. It's quite clever, based on a little inside joke we have. Actually, there are two scenarios, and I waste quite a bit of time vacillating back and forth about which way would be best to spring the happy news. ** When in reality, we'll probably both be present for the news, should it ever come to that, delivered by a hopefully-happy-but-more-likely-unenthusiastic nurse.
• How many baby gates will be required to contain said unknown children in the family/kitchen/living areas of our house, and their exact locations. Also, which style I prefer {simple, sleek white, versus the fussy, overembellished kind}
• What type of pretty nightgown I'll be wearing when I elegantly give birth to said baby{s}
• The design, layout, colors, furniture, fabrics of yet-to-be-created-in-a-petri-dish child{ren}. This I get a bit of forgiveness, as I work in this field, so it's a natural progression for me. Right? Seriously, there is a fast-growing pile of fabric swatches in the designated to-be nursery. The only reason I enter the room is to add another piece of pretty green fabric to the pile {unless of course, we have a houseguest who, against bettejudgmentnt, is forced to spend the night in the short-bus bed surrounded by "could it be for a nursery?" accessories}

Romantic evenings with the clicker

No, it wasn't a crazy night out on the town. Nothing so exciting. But last night, my brain was working in overdrive. I stayed at work extra late, just to keep myself busy - busy enough that I couldn't think about the fact that, no, I am not pregnant AGAIN.

Then a few errands, and home, where a hot bath and newly arrived stack of magazines awaited. My big shipment of B&N books-that-I-shouldn't-read-but-do-anyway failed to arrive, but a big old envelope from Resolve was waiting for me. Resolve is a national infertility organization, and in my neverending quest for more information than is probably mentally healthy, I made my way to their website, where you can simply devour articles, chat transcripts, interviews, etc. About various topics relating to fertility and the lack thereof. But what got me really psyched was, of course, the magazine! Another subscription to add to my rabbit-like-multiplying piles. Actually, they were pretty good (I had to get up to speed by ordering the past six months of magazines), and mostly covered topics from a more scientific perspective and were written by doctors.

There was an okay article on yoga and fertility, and it confirmed what I'd thought all along: it's okay for you. No one can prove any great insta-baby results, and it certainly doesn't seem to harm anything, so why not? That seems to be the prevailing wisdom, and what keeps me attending Tuesday night classes, and contemplating {but not yet attending} additional sessions.

After sufficient pruning in the tub, a little time with the man, a little time with the tube, and off to bed I go. To wait, and wait and wait to fall asleep. My brain was in overdrive and I couldn't shut it off, which might be the most annoying thing in the world {except for J's trombone-like snoring, which was an equal factor in last night's insomnia}.

The late hours of last night and wee hours of this morning were spent curled up on the couch, remote in hand, and On Demand programs about babies, births, and triplets. Three sets of triplets to be exact. Oh, and one about a woman with a 200-pound tumor {variety is the spice, right?}. And one doctor who delivered six of those nine triplets within 24 hours...whew. All of the moms had differing lengths of in-hospital bedrest ... how bad would that suck? I suppose, that because a few of them lived hours away from their hospitals, it might have been the only option, but talk about time to kill. I'd have to find a whole new slew of magazines to subscribe to ...

Bring on the Java

So now I'm waiting for an IVF consultation appointment. At least I was able to get one for next Monday, and don't have to wait forever. He said it had to be before Day 20. So does that mean we'll get to start right away? I know clinics all do it differently, so we'll see.

I knew it would come to this ... I knew it! Plus, I had a horrid dream last night about giving birth to eight babies. It was a gruesome dream in many ways, but suffice it to say, birthing eight children is horrible enough.

On the bright side, I think I've prepared myself pretty well. As mentioned below, I'm an info-whore, so I've got plenty of facts and figures stuffed up in my brain. And a library of books that the most learned librarian would be impressed with. Speaking of ... I should be getting that delivery from B&N today.

I don't even have to say the words for J to understand. I just came downstairs this morning, mumbled "We need to talk" and burst into tears. The translation was pretty clear. Over the past two years (more specifically, 26 cycles), I've managed to keep myself together pretty well. I only have a serious whining-super-sobbing-snotty breakdown (1) when my period arrives and (2) when I have to deal with the indignity and selfish unfairness of sticking myself with needles. But today, man, it was a double dose.

I thought I'd pulled myself together, so I dialed Dr.E's office to report the not-so-happy news. I barely got through the first sentence before I choked up and went super-sobbing-snotty. Just trying to spell my name for her was trying. Lovely ladies that work there, though, really. She immediately said she was so sorry, told me it was too early in the morning for so many tears, and to go get myself a big cup of coffee and a bowl of ice cream.

Considering I've been on the no-caffeine kick for the past month (little good that did me), I didn't head straight for SB like I usually do, but did enjoy a lunchtime treat with fully-caffinated Diet C and three (okay maybe four - but small) pieces of yummy pizza. A decent band-aid.

Limbo ... Purgatory ... Whatever you want to call it.

I don't intend for this "I'm waiting" framework to be perceived as a complaint. While, of course, I'm not totally satisfied at where my life is right now, I'm not totally unhappy either. I'm just in limbo ... Caught between two worlds.

Moi & my current obsessions

So here I wait, patiently. I'm a 30 year old woman, living in a southern city with her phenomenal husband and two {sometimes} wonderful kitties.

I love to read, to gather information. And my current topic du jour is fertility, more specific infertility, pregnancy, how to get pregnant, medications, treatments and all the crazy stuff that goes along with it. I read journal articles, fact-filled books, transcripts, self-help books, instructional books, memoirs, I'm-with-you-girlfriend-kind-of-books. Oh, and don't forget about magazines. In fact, I've pretty much finished up the "women's health" section of my local B&N, BAM, BOA, and every local bookseller. I've moved on, and am anxiously waiting for a box of tomes to arrive via B&N online.

Let's talk about magazines. Covering all sorts of subjects, I'm simply obsessed with them. It can probably be traced back to my first job out of college. I'd started during school as an intern at a city magazine, and took a below-poverty-line-salary job there after graduation. Literally, right after graduation. As in the next day. No time off for me.

Anyway, it was a fabulously interesting job, and my obsession is now clear to anyone who enters my house, peeks in my shoulder bag, looks in my car, or makes a trip to the drugstore or bookstore with me. I can't get enough of that bound printed matter.

Again, my current favorite magazine topic is just like my book obsession above. While I'm partial to one particular magazine that specifically covers the topic of conception, I'm happy to peruse those that explore pregnancy, parenting, and all the lovely steps in between. Some might think that reading about this subject/these people - a place/person I long to be - would be upsetting. But I see it more as prep work. Once I'm lucky enough to be in the delivery room, I'll be able to tell the nurse, with authority, that yes, it's okay for me to snack on more than ice chips, according to page 12, volume 7, August 2001 issue of Pregnant Lady magazine. {Rest assured, I'm aware that this may be completely bunk advice above ... just go with me here.}

and waiting...and waiting.

Today, I'm waiting till I can take a pregnancy test. Of course, I've already taken two in the past week, but what's one more?

Yesterday, I was waiting and waiting to get through a totally busy day, get home, and jump in a warm bath with a good book.

Tomorrow, I don't think I'll be waiting for a thing, except a good time. A fun wedding weekend awaits.