A Look Inside

Above is a picture of our Macie at 34 weeks, 4 days.  She has her daddy's nose, and I think she has my mouth.  My mom pulled out baby pics of my siblings and weighed in similarly.  I do know this though: I've never seen such a beautiful person in all my life.  I never thought I would think this about a baby--honestly, they usually seem a little funny looking to me (as I'm sure this pic may to you).  But as soon as I saw her, I was enamored.  She's definitely ours.

Ready or Not

I plan to bring home a baby girl, hopefully 7 pounds-ish, in approximately four weeks. Four weeks? Four weeks! This whole IVF & pregnancy ordeal is suddenly becoming so real. (As if poking around my insides and nether-region hadn't already convinced me of the reality.) So now what? I work for three more weeks. I complain (occasionally if Tim's lucky) about my back hurting. I drink Jamba Juice. I watch movies. I go to church stuff. I enjoy numerous baby showers (thanks, gals!). I read another book or two. And then, bam, I'm a mom? Really? Just like that?

After Tim and I visited the doctor today and listened to a rough time-table for Macie's arrival, I asked him, "Are you ready to be a dad in three-and-a-half weeks?" His answer: "I don't know." Well, daddy-to-be, too late now. I know it seems strange that a couple with fertility issues would have this dilemma. If I saw this blog, I would think, "If you're not ready after trying for three years, maybe it's time to put this idea on the back-burner." But whether we had to wait three years or five years or ten years and on and on . . . I think we would still have the same "Oh my gosh, we're actually having a baby" feelings.

That's actually part of the reason years ago I so wanted to have an "oops, we're pregnant" kind of baby-surprise. I wanted to feel that even though I didn't plan or work for a baby, God saw fit to grant one to me because I would be such an awesome mother. When that didn't happen, the doubts about me as that "perfect mother" set in with a vengeance. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be one after all. It seems that's a common feeling among the fertility challenged such as us.

But on this end of fertility treatment and pregnancy, fully knowing that the world is upside down and no list of qualifications or personality-drawbacks seems to determine whether or not one can make a child, I realize that I still have some of the same insecurities that beset me before Macie's creation. This afternoon as I rested (napped) I contemplated the question I asked Tim: Am I ready to be a parent in three-and-a-half weeks? Anxiety waited, ready to pounce on the question, but instead the first thought that came to mind brought comfort. I MUST be ready because she's almost ready to arrive. After all, she is what makes me "mom." I may not feel ready for 2am, 4am, 6am feedings. Or the nasty diapers. Or the crying--and how the heck do I know which cry means what? But someway or another, I trust that the One who put this baby together in the petri-dish (no, not Dr. Gill--who I highly recommend, by the way) and watched her implant on the bottom right side of my uterus (sorry if that's TMI) and then made her heart beat just on time knows exactly the right time for Macie to enter her destiny while mom and dad try to figure out how exactly parenting fits into our own.

My Reason to Relax

Last Monday, Macie and I had an adventurous day. I arrived at my doctor's office after a stressful day at work, rushing to get there on time, and the nurse found my blood pressure a bit higher than normal. I also had to discuss the fact that I'd spotted slightly that day, and between the two issues, they sent me directly to the hospital for observation. After a couple of hours, the hospital found all well and sent me home.

A crazy start to a busy week in which I met with 25 students regarding admission into National Honor Society, graded numerous junior research papers, and fielded dozens of questions from students. And now, I rest. Spring Break officially began today, and I've devoted my hours to napping, lunch with my sister, and napping. Although a pile of grading and prep work for my sub looms before me, I've decided to get to it when I get to it. In the meantime, Macie and I will relax in preparation for the big event which could be as soon as 3 weeks away. (I'm in Week 33 right now).

I justify my time of rest and relaxation with the knowledge of the risk of hypertension amongst PCOS gals. So far, I've dodged the increased risk of gestational diabetes. Now, I attempt to keep my blood pressure as normal as possible by enjoying Spring Break. Nice excuse, huh?

Fluffing my Feathers

I believe I am now in the stage known as nesting. Unfortunately, as I told Tim last night, my nesting has nothing to do with furiously (or even non-furiously) cleaning the house. Obviously. And it has nothing to do with making sure my daughter has a place to sleep--still no crib. However, I did just spend the last few minutes cleaning my school desk, discussing missing work with students, and contemplating the best timing to take all their artwork/writing samples off the wall. I've arranged for a sub to take my advisory, and I'm anxiously hoping to meet final candidates for my sub position. And yes, I still have until April 9 to teach. What is this strange urge to get everything ready and in place right NOW???!!!

I also found myself unable to sleep earlier this week as I thought about the mound of grading from junior research to sophomore projects. I'm definitely concerned that Macie will make her appearance before my professional life is in order. Tomorrow marks Week 32, and although we'd prefer she stayed inside at least four more weeks, I'm happy to know that she would most likely be ready enough for the outside-world, even though mommy may not be quite ready yet. As of tomorrow: 8 months and counting.

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.