A Comprehensive Pre-Pregnancy To-Do List

Pregnancy preparedness: Things you’ll want to do before you get knocked up – in no particular order.

1.  Start telling strangers in line at the grocery store and strangers you’re connected with on social media that you are pregnant and that you are  planning to formula feed.  Take notes when they give you loads of valuable advice about infant feeding.

2.  Stare at your naked self in the mirror and pinch the flabbiest part of your belly.  Sneer at it in disgust. Then, try to imagine that your flabby belly will never again be this toned.  Pat your (soon to be thought of as toned) flab and tell it you’ll miss it.

3.  Google childbirth worst-case scenarios.  Develop extreme anxiety.  PANIC.

4.  Stock up on your favorite seasonal treats, since you don’t know what will be available when you crave it most.  DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT eat your Thin Mints.  You will need them later.  TRUST ME. Scavange boxes from your friends and family if you can.

5.  Drink copious amounts of vino.  You’re really gonna miss this stuff.

6.  Attend a natural childbirthing class and ask questions like, “What is the herbal equivalent to an epidural?” and, “How many six packs do I need to drink to help my milk come in?”

7.  Keep a box of tissues in your purse at all times.  When you want to be pregnant, everyone else around you will become pregnant. Teenagers, nuns, your eccentric uncle.  EVERYONE.

8.  Go to yoga.  You’ll need the core strength to sustain a healthy pregnancy, delivery, and recovery.  You’ll need the breathing exercises to offset the breast-feeding advice, childbirth horror stories and immaculate conceptions going on all around you.

9.  Kegels.  Yes, you need to do them.  Start ‘em now.  Do them in the car, do them at work, do them when you empty the dishwasher. You’d better get used to multi-tasking.

10.  Drink more wine.  Relish it.

11.  Research baby products and read each and every review.  Buy fifteen books reviewing the products and then buy three more books reviewing the reviews. Create an elaborate wish list.  Go register for products and get so annoyed with the process that you just scan the first two items on each shelf. (*Note – those choices will work out just fine).  Pass along books along to the nearest pregnant sap.

12.  Sex it up.  If you’re struggling with conception, sex will quickly turn into a chore you have to complete in between laundry and online banking.  Once you get pregnant, your husband will worry about poking the baby.  Right after having the baby, you’ll worry about breaking your pelvis.  When the baby is older, you’ll both choose sleep over sex.  It’ll be a couple years before you’re both in the mood (and that’s when you’ll start trying for your next baby).

13.  Read up on the importance of infant schedules and sleep training.  Try to do 100 pull ups, walk across hot coals, and hold your breath for 4 minutes under water.  These three tasks will better prepare you for the inevitable realization that carefully planned schedules and techniques won’t work out for you in any way, shape or form.

14.  Start slathering on the cocoa butter.  If it doesn’t prevent stretch marks, it’ll at least smell like coconuts and make you think of the beach.  Once you’re pregnant, keep using it but know that you’ll feel less like a Hawaiian Tropics girl and more like a beached whale.

15.  Start spending time with other people’s kids.  Their whining, incessant chatter, tantrum throwing and disgusting drooling will prepare you for what is to come.  Let me remind you that evolution has programmed us to love our own so much more than our neighbor’s.  Don’t be afraid, your own will be amazing.  A science refresher is always valuable.

16.  Relax.  Because we all know that unlike ovulation, balanced hormones or healthy uterine linings, this is the true key to conceiving.

Any other advice for those who want to be parents?

Camping Trips As Spousal Screenings

Mr. Grouch and I met in 1997, my freshman year of college, his sophomore year.  It didn’t take long for me to fall head over heels.  At 18 years old, I knew he’d probably be the one I married, but we were young and foolish and we used to drive each other batshit crazy.  We broke up a few times and after 4 years of mostly-together-but-a-little-apart, we thought we might have broken up for good.  We were separated for  3 1/2 years before getting back together for ever-ever.

Within The Hiatus, we each dated other people.  I briefly kept company with a guy we’ll call Featherweight.  Featherweight and I decided to go camping for a weekend, and visit my friend Nic, who was in the middle of a months long hiking adventure on the Appalachian Trail.  I called Nic the day before we left so we would know his exact location on the trail.

Before hanging up, I asked him, “Have you seen any bears?”  I was expecting him to say no.

Nic is a tall, lanky blonde, who was dirty and smelly and scruffy from months of hiking along the trail.  He also pilfered 3 rolls of toilet paper – by unrolling them by hand – from the stalls at Applebees when we took him there at the end of the trip. The look on his mangy bearded face was priceless when we pointed out that we could have just given him several rolls we brought. But, that is completely irrelevant to the story.  Back to the phone call.

Apparently only one day earlier, he had been walking briskly, arms swinging, with his 40 lb. pack on his back.  He was listening to music and was so comfortable on the trail that he was paying more attention to his thoughts than the scenery, until he noticed a dark image out of the corner of his eye.  He turned his head to the left, threw his arms up and let out an “Ahhhh!” when he realized there was a large brown bear standing at close proximity.  He discovered that bears take loud yelling, accompanied with raised arms, to be an aggressive posture.  He told me, “Everything you learn about what to do when you come across a bear goes out the window.  I just started running”.

Nic started trotting down the trail and the bear started galloping after him.  A couple of trail runners were jogging in the opposite direction, and when they saw this chase, they turned around and started running the other way.  Three people in a row, sprinting as a brown bear followed.  Eventually the bear swiped at Nic’s pack and then stopped the chase.

Brown Bear in Spring (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember, this was the day before we were going to meet him on the trail.  My panicking-about-bears problem was born.

So Featherweight and I start hiking on the “trail”.  You can’t follow the Appalachian Trail by looking down at your feet because there aren’t clear paths worn away by walkers.  In order to make sure you stay on the trail, you have to look for white swipes of paint, called blazes, on the trees.  You scan to the left and to the right and when you see a blaze, you know to walk in that direction.  Then you scan again and search for the next blaze.  This is what they look like:

A typical white AT blaze along the trail (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After 3 miles of walking, Featherweight and I realize we had been walking in the wrong direction.  Crap.  We turned around and after 6 miles of hiking, we were back at the beginning.  The beginning of the end.  We were now going to arrive later than we thought, and later in the day meant closer to darkness and I now knew that darkness was full of bears.

I started walking faster.  It started getting darker.  I started walking FASTER.  Featherweight started lagging behind.  Featherweight started whining about his pack being too heavy.  Featherweight started whining about night-blindness and was all “I can’t see any of the blazes”.  Featherweight started whining about me going to fast.

I stared at him incredulously.  Darkness.  Blindness.  Bears.  This is when I knew for sure he wasn’t the one.  The proverbial straw on the camel’s back, if you will.  I will not be slowed down and potentially end up lost in the woods, in the dark, with bears.  I. Will. Not. Be. Slowed. Down. Even though Mr. Grouch and I never went camping, I knew if I needed him to keep up, he would.  He wouldn’t let me get eaten by a bear.  Even if he was tired, and hungry and couldn’t see, he’d at least protect me by making sure to keep up, you see?

Needless to say the camping experience with Featherweight was tense and awkward and we were so clearly OVER.  I advise all couples to put themselves in a few stressful situations before picking a mate, otherwise you might not realize you’re dating a Featherweight until it’s too late.

Mr. Grouch and I are now older and we still drive each other batshit crazy.  But, he can keep up with me, which makes him a keeper.

If you liked this post you may also enjoy An Open Valentine To Mr. Grouch

Paper Fetish

Everyone has something peculiar they enjoy.  Some hobby, some craft, some chore, some strange cuisine, some type of entertainment.  Something.  Weird.  At least I think they do.  Anyone who isn’t boring does, I guess.

I have a paper fetish.  I’m infatuated with paper.  I love combining colors and patterns into pleasing designs.  When I scrapbook I create paper art with the addition of the faces I love.  I always thought scrapbooking sounded so dorky, but then I tried it and couldn’t stop.

There is something about the physical cutting and physical placing of the paper that is intoxicating.  I do not get this same rush from using digital software (though to be fair, I haven’t tried much out yet, other than adding the border and name to my pics below, so maybe that’s an addiction waiting to happen).

I cut apart magazine pieces and put them together into silly collages. It’s unlike scrapping in that I just find a few pictures that go together and create something out of what I have in front of me, instead of specifically choosing pictures or memories.  I’m always on the lookout for books and magazines that contain pictures I can use for my art at garage sales.  I think about creating more than I have actual time for my hobby, but either way, I am addicted to it. Not sure why.

“I want to make beautiful things, even if nobody cares”.  – Saul Bass

Here’s a small sampling of my collage art.

3 piece collage.

11 piece collage. This one was one my favorites to make. The penguins each found perfect placements.

14 piece collage. I want to make this larger and frame it. I like this one.

4 piece collage.

20 piece collage.

22 piece collage. The background is from a sewing book my grandmother gave me. Probably not what she expected me to do with it.

3 piece collage.

5 piece collage

What oddball things do you love?

Nine Ways I’m Going To Be Annoying When I’m Old (Which Also Happen To Be Why I’m Annoying Now)

1. I’m going to misplace everything.  I already do this, so it’ll just be magnified twelvethousandfold.  I misplace my phone about 5 times a day.  I put papers on my desk and can’t find them for 40 minutes.  And they’re right there, on my desk.  It’s exhausting.  My grandmother recently drove an hour and a half away to get her hair down at a salon by her old house, and while she was there she went to lunch.  She somehow managed to lose her car key between parking, walking into the restaurant, eating and leaving.  She thought it must be buried under the umbrellas, shopping bags, papers, and multiple packages of cookies she has strewn around her car, so she made my mom call a locksmith (who totally swindled her and made her pay 175.00 in cash).  After all that, the key wasn’t even in her car.  My mom had to make the 4 hour trip to bring her a spare.  This is the kind of shit you’ll be dealing with in the future, Baby Grouch.

2. I’m not going to be able to hear anything.  I already can’t hear.  I once went in to have my hearing tested because I realized I was making my students repeat themselves and kept telling them they needed to just TALK LOUDER.  It turns out my eardrums work just fine, but I’m allergic to my cat.  So allergic, in fact, that my Eustachian tubes are perpetually stuck together.  Allergen earmuffs, if you will.  What? Did you ask me why I didn’t get rid of my cat? I think we’ll both be better off if I pretend I didn’t hear you say that.

3.  I’m going to poke my loved ones in the eyeballs with my whiskers.  Seriously, I’m the hairiest beast.  You  might think I’m exaggerating, but have you seen my 7th grade picture?  I can only hope that they won’t get so long that I poke myself in my own orbs.  Which brings me to number 4.

4.   I’m going to be blind.  This is going to be a horrible condition in itself, but will be doubly horrible when considering the implications when combined with number 3.  How will I see the hairs that need to be plucked?  I’m already very much near-sighted.  Combine this with impending farsightedness and that means I’ll be nosighted.  Blindness is scary. Almost as scary as not seeing my own hirsuteness is not being able to see if bears are surrounding my tent when I go camping.  Even if I don’t actually go camping, the thought of potentially being in the woods and not being able to spot a bear before it sneaks up on me and swipes my guts out with his claws, gives me anxiety.  My impending nosightedness is not going to improve my neuroses.

5.  I’m going to walk into a room and ask, “What did I come in here for?”  This will happen in every room I enter. Probably even the bathroom.  I will go into a room to complete task A and not be able to remember what task A was until I walk out of the room to do task B.  At this point, I will complete task A, and then completely forget what the hell task B was.  And the cycle continues.  And, I will probably end up peeing myself.

6.   I’m going to list every item I have in the fridge and pantry when guests come for a visit. My grandmother does this and it is annoying as fuck.  Seriously, stop telling me about the 6 different types of mustard that you have in the fridge.   Mustard is delicious, yes, but also so not important. In fact, it is so unimportant that I will choke on a dry pretzel before encouraging you by responding to your nonsensical mustard-speak.  The incessant babble about mustard is making me hate my used-to-be-favorite condiment.  I caught myself Granny Listing the other day to my sister’s fiance.  I basically forced leftover pumpkin pie into his hand and was wasting time chatting about condiments, for crissakes.  We hardly get to talk and I wasted time on CONDIMENTS.  I’m pissing myself off thinking about it right now.  I caught myself after I had offered up half my fridge and then promptly rescinded all of my offers and wouldn’t let him try my strawberry ghostpepper jam (which is REALLY, REALLY good).

7.  I’m going to get annoyed with technology.  I like to think I’m okay with technology now.  I’m one of the ones in our department where I work who is considered somewhat technology savvy.  But, if I’m trying to do something and I don’t know how, I really just want someone to do it for me.  I usually need it done NOW and don’t have time for bullshit – like LEARNING.  I get annoyed when I can’t do something, but I get even more annoyed when someone points out the obvious, like the fact that I should take the time to figure it out.  I still haven’t used Tweet Grid.  Or Prezi.  Or Camtasia.  Let’s face it, I’m not so hot at Instagram.  I think there are a million apps that people use all the time I haven’t even heard of yet.

8.  I’m not going to be able to sleep.  Hopefully I can still blog about it and find others who can relate and help me vent or find the humor in the situation.  Then it’ll just annoy those who hate hearing about my stupid blog.

9.  I’m going to gross you out with my cough. It’s already harsh and recurrent.  I drink water – I cough.  I talk – I cough.  I breathe – I cough.  I sleep – I wake myself up with my cough.  I choke on my own saliva – I cough and cough and cough and tears stream down my face and I cannot get one word out and I cough some more.  Baby Grouch was doing this weird fake-coughing for awhile and I couldn’t figure out why.  As I was changing her one day and turned my head to cough, it dawned on me.  She was COPYING me.  At 6 months old Baby Grouch was already a saucy little Coughy Cat.  So gross.  My grandmother gets a cough every time she eats.  One bite and it’s all cough cough cough cough… and she gets an amazed look on her face and says, “Oh! I’ve got a tickle in my throat!” She always acts surprised, like the same thing didn’t happen at breakfast and lunch and dinner for the past 20 years.

How are YOU going to annoy your friends and family when you get older?

Depression is Analogous to Treading Water

Depression is hard to explain to those who haven’t experienced it firsthand. People who are lucky enough to not understand it often brush it off, and expect the depressed to just, “snap out of it”.  There’s no limp, no rash, no wheezy cough.  It’s an invisible ailment.  The disease is misunderstood and has a negative stigma and it can be embarrassing to admit you have mental health condition.  It is also biologically based and indubitably real.

When I think about my own depression, I liken the experience to being out in the middle of an ocean, treading water.

You are just trying to keep your head above water.  You are using all of your energy to stay afloat.  You do not have energy to attend events, enjoy your hobbies or cheer on your friends.  You might be focusing so hard on surviving that you forget dates or meetings or to pick up bread from the store, or even to take your own meds. Compared to sinking and drowning in the salty sea, those other items are quite trivial.  It’s Maslow’s hierarchy in action.

You feel alone.  Stranded, stuck. There’s no one to talk to, no one to listen, no one to understand.  In a crowded room, at a family holiday, you’re still staring out at an open ocean, feeling utterly isolated.

It’s physically exhausting.  Treading water takes energy.  Your legs hurt, your neck hurts, your head hurts.  Your eyes hurt, your stomach hurts.  You’re tired.  All the time.  Tired.  You are so tired, you could fall asleep at your desk, at the grocery stores, driving your car.  You’re so tired you’re not sure how long you can keep this jig up.

You think you might not make it. Sometimes not knowing which direction leads to shore, means you remain immobile.  People who do not understand depression might think you don’t WANT to help yourself, that’s you’re being lazy – when in reality you just don’t know where to go.  You don’t know how to fix it.  You don’t know if you CAN fix it.  Sometimes something that used to help, doesn’t help anymore. You feel hopeless.

You think it might be easier to just let go and be swallowed up by the sea.  You’re just so tired and you don’t think it’ll ever get better.  You sit in the garage with the car running, thinking about shutting the door, much more often than you would ever outwardly admit.  Usually you just go inside and say hi to your spouse and start making dinner.  Some people eventually decide to stop pumping their legs and shut the garage door.

You might not be able to get out of this situation by yourself. Remember when Rose, from the movie, Titanic, was stranded at open sea, half-frozen on the trunk?  If you recall, the rescuers came to help, but at first she just blends in with the rest of the dead.  Most people can’t see how depressed you really are.  Even when the help was right there, Rose barely had the energy to reach out to them to save her own life.  The only thing that saved her was the whistle.  If you don’t have a whistle, of sorts, a way to get the help that’s needed in terms of medicine, therapists or other supports, it’s very difficult to get yourself out of the blackness.  Sometimes you have a whistle and just can’t see the rescuers.

You’re not very cordial.  You might notice that saying hello and turning the corners of your mouth upwards takes significantly more energy than you have stored within your cells.  Can you imagine a rescue team approaching someone who is stranded in the ocean, and them berating the person they are plucking from the tide because he or she isn’t affable?  Is too unsociable?  That’s the message we receive when our friends and family get upset at us for looking or acting like we feel. Sometimes we push away the lifesavers around us with our poor dispositions.  Sometimes the people we need help from the most unknowingly hold our heads under water.

Some days are okay while others are a nightmare. Sometimes treading water is okay.  Like, if it’s sunny and there’s a nice breeze and you’ve only been treading water for 20 minutes.  But, it is a whole different story if you’ve been stranded for days, without food, and it’s thunderstorming.  People with depression have good days and bad days (or months or years) depending on what’s going on and how long they’ve been feeling this way.  Seeing someone smile does not mean they are not struggling with depression.

You have irrational fantasies of being saved.  Mirages appear, making you feel like you are saved.  You think the depression will never recur.  Perhaps you’re picked up by a boat, and you think, “Hooray!  I’ll never be in this situation again!”, But inevitably, the boat gets a hole and sinks and whoever rescued you drowns and you’re back in the same blackness you fantasized about never again having to experience.  And you think, “How did I get stuck out here, AGAIN?!”  As much as you feel like it won’t, it always comes back.  It always, always does.  Hint:  That’s how you know it’s a disease.

No one is ever really cured of depression.  If you struggle with depression, you’re always treading water.  Sometimes your legs are like lead and your head keeps going under.  Other times you’ve got your floaties on, bobbing in the Sun, with a clear view of land just over your shoulder.  You’re still always treading. It’s just a matter of how far offshore you are.

For those of you who have experienced depression, how do you explain it to other people?

If you liked this post you may also like:  A Bit of Gray Peeking Out

Call Me a Fanfaron This Week

Ok, I’m going to be a little boasty, braggy, hippity hoppity.  I can’t help it, I just might explode – this week has been sort of amazing.  I have had a lot of horribly dark weeks, and this one is shiny and bright and remarkably different than those.

FRIDAY: I am starting a support program for students on the Autism Spectrum at the high school I work in - we will be piloting it, starting in September.  A local news channel  interviewed me last week, along with a parent and student in the program, and ran a segment about the program on the 5 o’clock news.  Bonus: My excessive facial hair was not overly noticable, even with the high def cameras.

SATURDAY:   A record number of views today on my Accidental Marathoner post made my day!  I also got a piece of “fan mail” in the form of a message on my fb page from someone who had enjoyed the post.  The message said this:

Congratulations on your achievement! Besides it being your own personal achievement, you’ve inspired countless others you’ll never know. This is … a great thing in light of ALL the events of the past week. 4 of my children will run in the Illinois Marathon this coming Saturday (the first for all of them!). I shared your Accidental Marathoner blog with them….truly inspiring, very much the truth, they agreed. I just wanted you to know that what you write makes a difference.

Um, can you say BEST EMAIL EVER?!

SUNDAY:  I ran my first marathon.  Despite not running for two years before having my baby, and running the race 7 months post-baby (the point being: I did not feel NEARLY as strong as I think I should feel before running a marathon), I decided to just go for it. I had a great experience, and my time beautifully corresponded with the whole reason I ran the marathon in the first place.

MONDAY: Our news story aired a second time, on the local news channel’s morning program.  I could also walk down the stairs pretty comfortably – something I was not anticipating after the 26.37 miler the day before.

TUESDAY:  Baby Grouch got her 2nd tooth.  I know I had nothing to do with this, but I sort of feel like I do because I MADE HER (Double bonus:  I MADE A BABY -  still pretty excited about that).

WEDNESDAY:  I thought Saturday went well, but today I was completely overwhelemed with the number of views, replies and comments on my post in honor of Infertility Awareness Week.  This far surpassed my previous record on Saturday of most views on a post.  I had a lot of people share the Top 10 list, and there were so many women who said that this hit the nail on the head, that it said what they felt, but were often too afraid to say.  It is sort of amazing when you realize you aren’t alone, and there are so many others who understand you.

THURSDAY:  I dropped the cap to my water bottle, but then immediately caught it ON MY SHIN before it hit the floor and I lifted my leg up to return said cap to my hand.  Clumsy and yet SO coordinated at the same time.

And ALSO, I got my first piece of hate mail!  It was very exciting and occurred in the form of another blogger posting about how my Infertility Awareness Post pissed her off. HAH!  She didn’t actually point out much that she didn’t like about it, other than a) my agressive tone (absolutely guilty as charged, that was the idea) and b) when I said infertiles didn’t want to hear pregnant people complaining about their whaleish pregnant bodies.  Her huffiness made more sense when I noticed she had JUST written a post about how horribly whaleish she’s feeling because she’s got a big pregnant body (I’m paraphrasing here).  I get it.  Other side of the coin and all that.  I’m not offended that she got offended.  Plus, the fact that she hated it helped me raise awareness even more, so I thank her for helping me accomplish my goal.

Perhaps I was linked into her post an effort to draw more readers to her blog.  If that’s the case, I guess the joke’s on her, because I’m really a half-assed blogger and I don’t have that many readers! She must think I care deeply about my readership numbers since she felt the need to point out to me that she wouldn’t have bothered complaining about my post publically if she had noticed ahead of time that I wasn’t a “big time blogger”.

FRIDAY:  A few months ago I entered my infertility story (the nice one, not the bitchy one) into a writing contest.  And guess what? I won a $400 prize package -  money towards a vacation destination and also money towards future services at the fertility center that hosted the contest.  Maybe enjoying a free weekend away will make my husband less annoyed that my face is constantly shoved into my computer keyboard.

I also utilized the word “fanfaron” which came in my word-a-day email this week.  I never remember to practice those words.

Ok, I’m done.  I’ll be humble again, now that I got that out.

For all you jealous types, don’t worry, I’m sure next week I’ll get rear ended, drop my cell phone in the toilet and my cat will pee all over the living room carpet.  Because, that’s how life works.

Top 10 Things Infertiles Want You To Shut The Fuck Up About

In honor of Infertility Awareness Week – here’s a Top 10 list for what some of y’all should shut the fuck up about.

1.  Complaints about your body during pregnancy.  Swollen feet?  Fat ass?  Whaleish proportions?   Shut the fuck up, you’re pregnant. You have a tiny head and tiny feet poking you in the ribs and wedged between your organs. That’s how you’re supposed to feel.

2.  Complaints about what you can’t eat while pregnant.  Can’t eat sushi? Can’t eat goat cheese?  Can’t eat salami?  Shut the fuck up before we shove this seaweed wrapped, cheese slathered salami up your ass.  Have you heard the saying you can’t have your cake and eat it too?  Maybe not, seeing how you’re devouring that cake….

3.  Complaints about what you can’t do while pregnant.  Can’t go on a rollercoaster? Can’t go on a trampoline?  Can’t skydive?  Shut the fuck up, we can’t have a baby.

4.  Complaints about your kids.  Up all night?  Have picky eaters?  Sick of them crying over broken toys?  Sick of them crying over sharing toys?  Sick of them crying over the fact that you made them wear pants?  Shut the fuck up, that’s how kids act.

5.   Questions about when we’ll have kids.  When do we think we’ll have kids?  Are we planning on ever having kids?  Hm, let’s see, we thought about 3 years ago, but now we don’t know if we ever will be able to, THANKS FOR ASKING.  Shut the fuck up with your ignorant questions.

6.  Complaints about how your pregnancy/children is affecting your sex life.  Really?  Try forcing your spouse to have sex with you when they have a temperature of 103 and a raging sinus infection, because it is cycle day 15 and you don’t “waste a cycle”.  Or try having to drive to Ohio because it’s cycle day 15 and your spouse is out of town for work and you don’t want to “waste a cycle”. Then you can talk to us about your crappy sex life.  Shut the fuck up, we can’t wait to not HAVE to have sex.

7.  Gushing about how your prenatal vitamins made your hair and nails grow.  ”Prenatal vitamins made my hair so lush and my nails so long” you say.  Yea, shut the fuck up.  We’ve been on them for 3 years and our split ends have split ends and our nails are stubs (but maybe that is from our anxious chewing?)

8.  Complaints about all of your doctor appointments/procedures.  Really?  Because some of us are spending hundreds or thousands of dollars on medications and procedures.  We’re spending time at the doctor 4 days out of the month, on dates we can’t plan ahead, and often have to leave work or cancel plans to check on our follicle size.  We’re getting probed, we’re stabbing ourselves with needles, we’re nauseous because of the meds we’re taking.  The end result of this is usually bad news with a pitying look from a nurse, instead of getting to hear a heartbeat or see our baby’s toes on ultrasound.  Shut the fuck up about your doctor visits and procedures.

9.  Advice about how to get pregnant.  Relax?  Stop trying and it will happen?  Utilize the missionary position?  Drink herbal tea?  Trust in God’s plan?  Chart our temperatures?  Shut the fuck up with your witchcraft and wives tales.  We’re working with our reproductive endocrinologists, thank you very much, because this is a biological problem, not a fairy-tale dilemma.

10.  Complaints about not being able to drink because you’re pregnant.  Ok, actually, that one we get.  We totally get that.

Did I miss anything?

I found this on Pinterest, and do not know who created it. If you know, please send me a message so I can give them their due credit.

If you liked this post you may also like:  A Bit of Gray Peeking Out and The New Normal.

The Accidental Marathoner

I have two Mes.

Real me is caring and giving and kind.  Real me is never bored, because there is always someone to love or something to create or something to enjoy.  Real Me relishes weekends, family, friends and manically pursuing hobbies.  Real Me even loves horribly gray days and days when the basement floods and days when a baking dish explodes in the kitchen because there is always so much more to be grateful for.

Monster Me is angry and fearful and inadequate.  Monster Me is so depleted of energy that  the effort required to attempt to enjoy a hobby or a person or even myself is insurmountable.  Monster Me wants to cut and punch and scream.  Monster Me feels completely hopeless.  Monster Me thinks leaving the car running and shutting the garage door might not be unreasonable.

Real Me sometimes thinks Monster Me is gone for good.  But Monster Me is sneaky and always creeps back around, eventually.

When the two Mes got pregnant, Real Me decided that Monster Me was finally getting the boot.  That it was not okay for Baby Grouch to meet Monster Me.  That Baby Grouch deserved a better Mama.

Real Me started running right after Baby Grouch was born in an effort to prevent Monster Me from emerging.  Real Me set a post-baby goal of being able to run 10 miles, which had been achieved about 2 years before, though Real Me hadn’t run much since.

Exhausted, weak, tired.  Running.

Hormonal, irrational, cranky.  Running.

Back achy, pelvic achy, feet achy.  Running.

Sneezy, wheezy, coughing, congested.  Running.

Real Me carved out the time and made me go.  Even if that meant going to sleep by 8.00 to wake up for a 4.30 am run, or squeezing in a run with no time to shower before attending another function, or skipping activities with friends.  Real Me would not accept any excuses, because Monster Me needs to be continuously squelched.

After only a month, the goal was attained.  Perhaps this was because of strong(er) quads from squatting and lunging at yoga while pregnant with Baby Grouch (and the glorious weight gain that goes along with that whole process).  Perhaps this was because Real Me was pushing me as hard as was physically possible in order to keep Monster Me at bay.

A new goal of 20 miles was set, and at this point a training plan was utilized to schedule  runs in a feasible way, to attain the updated goal.  This is how Real Me ended up accidentally training for a marathon.

Every marathon runner has their reason for pushing their bodies to the limit, for sacrificing their sleep, and their time.  The level of commitment is so high that there HAS to be a deep-seated reason for someone to subject themselves to such an extreme dedication.  Completing a marathon is not about the race itself, but what the training has come to represent.  The race is simply a culmination and a celebration of that individual’s responsibility to themselves.

This is why the running community is so impacted by the Boston Marathon attack.  Even those of us who weren’t there know how much the race meant to those runners, because it’s not just a race.  It wasn’t just the activity of running that was abruptly stopped.  It was the activity of those runners proving something to themselves, that was so disturbingly interrupted.

The good news is, that the running community is a strong one.  One full of once-broken people who have chosen to heal, and refuse to let anyone or anything stop their healing process.  One full of people who, with every step, gain strength in character just as much as they gain strength in musculature.  One full of people who have an immediate bond with each other because of the mutual respect for each other’s promise to work on becoming better people.  The attempt to invoke fear, to alarm or to bring down this group of people was misguided - was directed at the wrong group.  We have already decided to gain strength from our weaknesses, and to not remain frozen in fear.  The Boston Marathon attack is just one more motivator for us to keep moving forward, step by step by step.

Update:  Real Me finished my first marathon with a time of 5:05.  How much did Baby Grouch weigh when she was born 7 months ago?  5 lbs 5 oz.  I love my marathon time

Underwater Soap Opera

Mr. Grouch has decided to pick up a few hobbies recently. One of these hobbies is maintaining a freshwater fish tank.  This tank has been chock full of drama from the beginning – a replacement for any soap opera on TV, I would argue.  I give you evidence in the following examples:

PRETTY CHARACTERS:  A Platinum Blond Angel, a beautiful Striped Angel, gem colored Blue and Sapphire Rams, striped Barbs, flame red Platys, a colorful Gourami and a boldly spotted Plecko.  All of the characters are well-manicured and an overall attractive cast.

A CHARISMATIC MANIAC:  Originally one of our favorite, most active fish (“oh, look how curious  and active he is!”), the Gourami quickly became a terror.  He would swim back and forth across the entire length of the 5 foot fishtank, very effectively pushing the other 13 fish into the 4 corners of the tank.  Several of the fish cower and move aside every time they see him.  I didn’t realize how creepily still a fish could be, or how it could back up or maneuver itself sideways to get out of the way.

VIOLENCE:  The Gourami used head-butting and fin-nipping to take over the tank.  The Platinum Blond Angel took the brunt of most of this nipping and the once long and pointy elegant dorsal fin became blunt and shredded.

AN ACCOMPLICE TO CRIMES:  The Striped Angel quickly joined forces with the aggressive Gourami and the two would double team the Platinum Angel, following it around, headbutting and nipping.

INCARCERATION:  The Gourami got put into “time out” – a second tank created  solely for his isolation.  The Striped Angel got off with a warning.

VICTIM BECOMES VICTORIOUS: With the Gourami behind bars, the Platinum Angel turned the tables and began fighting back against the Striped Angel, chomping on the Striped Fin until it became the noble victor.

BABY MAKING AND UNKNOWN PATERNITY: We quickly learned that platys give birth to live young when one became a mother.  It is unknown which Platy is the father.  Teensy orange specks with adorable giant globes for eyeballs emerged, only to be very quickly consumed by the other fish in the tank.  I couldn’t watch as one wee cutie trembled in the rocks, post-poning his inevitable demise.

HORRIFIC, UNSOLVED HOMICIDE: Mr. Grouch counts his fish every night at feeding time.  One day he noticed one less in his count, and then a half-eaten Blue Ram gruesomely stuck to the filter.  Who killed him?  The mystery remains unsolved.

A SUICIDE:  Stressed to death or so saddened by the loss of her pal, the second Blue Ram refused to swim around or eat much and quickly kicked the bucket after the death of the first Ram.

What drama will unfold next?  The entire Grouch family watches the show daily, waiting to find out.

An Open Valentine to Mr. Grouch

I thought I had already completed my obligatory Valentine’s Day post, when I wrote a love letter to my nasal irrigation system.  But, then I thought there was no reason to disregard my OTHER lovey-dovey.  No need to mention which or whom I love more.

Mr. Grouch, you are a man apart,
You wake me with your Good Morning fart.

We met in the year Nineteen Ninety Seven,
According to you, we’re a match made in Heaven.

It is true that sometimes I want to give your head a punch,
And hear the bones in your nose go crunch.

But I am often reminded of your positive traits,
Your brains, your balls, your beautiful face.

You'll call customer service and be firm, yet nice,
You can get anyone selling to come down to your price.

You're a man! A strong man! You demand lots of power,
(yet I find it endearing, how bats and mice make you cower).

Your handyman projects save us so much dough,
That it’s okay the bathroom trim looks only so-so.

You're an incredible father, at parenting you're top rate,
Good luck with your plan though, to never let her date.

You rub my back and pull out my chair, 
And do not care that I need vats of Nair. 

You put up with me during my times of despair,
And my panic while camping - of attack by black bear. 

If I asked, you’d make me coffee in the morning, 
Except I no longer trust you, you made decaf once, without warning.

You are a manly man, a work of art, 
And I love everything about you, for the most part.