I Want To Remember To Tell Her:

My memory cells fry easily.

Example A:

Tim and I go to the video store every couple of days, and inevitably, every few times we visit, I will point to a movie and say, "Oh, this looks good!" or "Why don't we try this one?"

His response: "Kristen, we've already seen that one."

Kristen: "We have?"

Tim: "Yep."

Kristen: "I don't remember it."

Tim: "I know. But we watched it a couple of months ago."

Hopefully, the conversation ends with my brilliant, "Oh yeah" faint recollection, but sometimes I just can't grasp at the memory. So, in an effort to retain the experiences of Macie's pre-birth wonders, below is a record of a few tid-bits I hope to remember to tell my daughter someday:

1. Your daddy and I want to see you move around during ultrasounds, but you always relax and become kind of chill like you're having a baby-massage as the specialists moves the wand around my abdomen. Yesterday, he finally had to jab at you a few times to make you squirm.

2. You get hiccups AT LEAST twice a day, sometimes more, and it's often about a half hour after mommy eats.

3. You moved into the labor position early--around 25 weeks--hoping to see mom and dad sooner rather than later.

4. You have tiny hair on the back of your head--visible via ultrasound at 30 weeks.

5. You like music, especially when you're listening to daddy's band on Sunday mornings.

6. You respond to mommy's voice in the morning, and you jump around, making my entire belly jiggle, during bath-time.

7. You definitely have sleeping and waking patterns. You particularly like to be awake and active between 8:30-10:30am and 7-9pm.

8. You are loved by so many people you haven't ever met. Grow inside a little longer, little girl.

The Right Century

Growing up, I loved reading books set in historical time periods. Louisa May Alcott's Little Women and Francis Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess and The Secret Garden were some of my favorites. Currently, I'm reading a newly discovered author (to me, at least) Sarah Dunant, who wrote Sacred Hearts and Birth of Venus, both set in in sixteenth century Italy. Because of my fascination with stories set in times past, I've been fond of claiming that perhaps I was just born in the wrong century. Sure, I love our modern day conveniences (thank you, indoor plumbing and Jamba Juice), but something about the romantic elements of the past speak to me.

Since I've saturated myself with stories from earlier decades or centuries, I often read about the plight of women during these times, and musing on this reality has caused me to rethink my yearnings for the past. For example, I often wonder as I read, how would I have been treated as an infertile woman in the sixteenth century--or even the mid-twentieth century? Surely, I would have received pitiful glances from women who pop out a baby every other year and perhaps whispers about her "sad condition" might have followed in my wake. But what about the more practical problems?

In seventeenth century England, I would attempt (and fail) to produce an heir for my husband. In eighteenth century New England, I might have been labeled a witch and hanged for my inability to conceive (for surely some dark power is at work in such instances, right???). In nineteenth century Midwest, I would have tried to compensate for my "problem" by working hard alongside my husband to establish land that no one would inherit.

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome was not even a term until the 1930s, and semen analysis (despite the fact that males historically received NONE of the blame for infertility issues) did not arrive on the scene until the 1920s. And, ultimately important to us, the great wonder of IVF was not even an option until the early 1980s. In light of these truths, I salute my fertility-challenged predecessors who walked through this journey without the kind of help, support, and options that I possess today. I am grateful for their struggle and perseverance that has helped lead to the modern-day advances that welcome another precious little-woman into this world: My Macie Grace. Thanks to these would-be mothers who have become a generation of "demi-mothers" to all of us who follow in their steps.

I Might Be An Elephant

I recently came across a fact about our fine, extra-large gray friends: "The gestation period for an elephant is the longest of all mammals and lasts about 22 months (630-660 days), with only one calf being born." (Wiki Answers)

I've also been thinking about my fertility history and noticing a few remarkable similarities:

• Twenty-two months ago, I had already spent a year and a half trying to become impregnated, so we decided to get serious. Lots of sex wasn't cutting it.
• Twenty-two months ago, I was just having my own hormones tampered and played with in order to achieve the perfect balance in order to ovulate. Thanks, Clomid!
• Twenty-two months ago, my body started becoming very confused as I pumped in pills, all as a lead-up to the happy shots that I would soon start using daily. All the fun surgeries were a bonus. :)

Twenty-two months. This has been a long journey, though much shorter than many other fertility-challenged friends I know. Totaled, our baby-making experience will equal three-and-a-half years by the time we see our Macie's face. But, truthfully, I wouldn't ever trade places with my non-elephant friends. She's worth the wait even though this pregnancy feels so very long. I think I may hop down to the zoo to commiserate with my four-legged, trunked friends.