Gratitude

I went to yoga for the first time in a while yesterday. I expected a good physical workout, but I didn't imagine the emotional butt kicking I would get. 

It started out like any other class. I was sweating through each pose, glad to be stretching and twisting after a few weeks of trying to take it easy while doing my first IVF cycle. At the end of class, my teacher, Verred, reminded us to have gratitude in our lives and specifically to have "gratitude for our bodies." 

This struck a chord with me. I was sitting with my hands in prayer at my heart, and I had to fight back tears. It wasn't until that very moment that I realized I'd been hating my body rather than appreciating it.

My body and I have a troubled and complicated relationship. I spent most of my childhood and adolescent years significantly overweight. I always felt like my body was holding me back from greatness. I literally felt weighed down by self-loathing, self-doubt, and fear and imagined that if I could just shake my body off like a snake's skin, my true self would emerge.

Even after I lost weight, my body remained a barometer of my self-worth. I fought with my body each day to stay thin, and then it became this hungry bag of bones trying to ruin me with food.

Slowly, I changed my relationship with my body; slowly I came to see my body as valuable and worthy of care and respect.

But it wasn't until I got pregnant that I really began to love my body. Each day I watched my belly grow, and with it my wonder at how miraculous the body is. I was so proud of what my body could do and loved watching it transform over those nine months.

After that, I thought my days of hating my body were over, and, yet, there I was, sitting on my mat, realizing that I am so angry with my body for betraying me once more, for refusing to do the one thing that I am biologically programmed to do, one thing I thought my body was actually good at.

I hadn't realized this, or, at least, I hadn't put it into words until Verred said "gratitude," and as I drove home, I thought about it more and more. There are so many blessings in my life, and it has become a daily ritual to remind myself of them each day, but not once had I placed my body on the list of blessings. This body which has carried me through 33 years without a broken bone or serious illness, this body that birthed a child with no medication, this body that ran two 5Ks this year, this body that I have often mistreated and disrespected, comes back each day like a faithful dog.

And I realized that my body is not trying to hurt me. Each day it pumps with blood, fills with breath, stretches, runs, thinks, cries, and laughs. It does its very best for me every minute of every day, and for that I am grateful.

 I guess I just needed a reminder.

Thanks for that, Verred.

Fairy Tales

I don't know why I'm still so incredulous. I was shocked two years ago when I didn't get pregnant the first month we started trying, shocked that another year passed with no luck, and shocked that all three IUIs failed last summer. You'd think the surprise and disbelief at my own infertility would have worn off by now. And yet, there I was, staring at my email message from the embryologist telling me that none of my measly three eggs had fertilized.

What?! None of them? You literally placed a sperm inside each egg and nothing happened? What are they, two seventh graders forced to play seven minutes in Heaven who don't know their asses from their elbows? It seemed to defy the laws of nature that an egg and a sperm placed next to each other wouldn't just do what they were placed on this earth to do. Disbelief is an understatement.

I knew that the IVF process could likely be filled with disappointment. I just didn't expect that disappointment to come so early. I never expected that I would only produce three eggs, and I certainly never expected to cancel my transfer because none of them fertilized.

And yet, I've been trying unsuccessfully to have a baby for two years. So, yeah, it makes sense that this wouldn't work. It makes sense that there might actually be something wrong. So why was I still so surprised? I think this is partly the fault of secondary infertility. I have had a child naturally, so everyone (including me) assumes that I will simply be able to have another baby, but what if my instant pregnancy with Ella was just a fluke? Perhaps infertility is my norm, and she was just an incredible miracle.

Who knows? Apparently no one because my doctor, one of the leading fertility specialists in New England, has been just as surprised as me.

I was discussing this incredulity with my girlfriend Christina this afternoon. It was right after our discussion of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, and she said, "Being surprised about your infertility is kind of like being surprised that a main character in Game of Thrones was killed."

I realized that this is a perfect analogy. Right at the beginning of the series they killed Ned Stark, the beloved hero, followed by his son and wife, two of the main characters. In episode after episode, horrible things happen to characters I adore, and still, every time it happens, I am shocked. Sunday night's episode was no exception. We were all rooting for the charismatic Oberyn Martell to avenge his sister's death by killing the monstrously evil Gregor Clegane (better known as The Mountain) and to also win the fight to save the wrongly imprisoned Tyrion from execution.

  

Before the episode began, my husband reminded me that this isn't an ordinary show. It is very possible that Oberyn will die and that Tyrion will die, and that every single person we love will die because George R. R. Martin is a sociopathic plot writer. And still, there I was watching breathlessly as Oberyn pierced The Mountain through the chest, bringing him to the floor. "He won!" I thought. "He did it!" and then, of course, The Mountain grabbed Oberyn by the leg, pulled him to the ground, and well... I'll spare you the details.

So there I was, shocked and angry once more. How could Oberyn die? This was supposed to be his Inigo Montoya moment! After the difficult news of my failed transfer, I felt as wronged as Oberyn Martell. He'd been waiting years for this moment, and he was so close to victory! I wanted to defeat infertility as much as he wanted to defeat The Mountain. He deserves it! We both do! And that's when I realized what the incredulity is all about. The real reason I continue to be shocked by  Martin's plot lines is because I still believe that just because you deserve something, you will get it. I want the heroes to win, and I guess I am the hero of this story. But your mother has been telling you for years that life isn't always fair. Just because you deserve something doesn't mean you'll get it. Sometimes the good guy loses.

This is a sad story, and it makes me wonder why we continue to place ourselves in the path of disappointment, over and over again. Why don't I simply stop watching Game of Thrones? For the same reason I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to discuss my next round of IVF.

Because no matter how naive it sounds, part of me still believes in fairy tales and that maybe, just maybe, the good guy will win this time.  

It's 10 PM: Do you know where your embryos are?

Today was the first of two procedures that constitute the IVF process: egg retrieval. After a week or so of nightly injections and daily pills, my follicles (the thingy-ma-jigs that hold your eggs inside the ovary) were ready to be  aspirated.

I was a little nervous for the procedure, only because it requires anesthesia and a long needle being inserted into my nether regions. I've only been under anesthesia twice, once in fourth grade to have my adenoids taken out, and the other in high school with my wisdom teeth removal. Both are not fond memories, but this was easy. As soon as they put me under, I was coming right back out, and after ten minutes of being a little loopy and professing my love to the anesthesiologist (I literally said, "I just want you to know I really like you," in a drunken idiot voice), I was good to go. A little cramping, a little tired, but that's it. I would have even worked out today, but I figured I wasn't supposed to, so I didn't. Honestly, the worst part was that I couldn't eat or drink anything after midnight last night. What?! Not even water! Ask my husband what I'm like when I don't get to eat breakfast or drink coffee. It's not pretty. But once I got a ginger ale and a Nutter Butter, I was happy as a... well, as a fat girl with a Nutter Butter in her mouth.

All in all, the procedure was a total success, except, of course, for the part where they only retrieved three eggs. I know that very few, if any, of my blog readers (ha ha ha- I think I still have blog readers!) know or care about IVF, so I'll spare you the details. The point is that most women end up with 10, 15, 20 or more eggs. Of course, you only need one, but the more you have, the higher your chance of having some really awesome embryos to choose from. More eggs also give you more eggs to freeze, so if the procedure doesn't work, you've already got some good embryos to work with. Three eggs doesn't give us a lot of wiggle room.

This is the first time since the process started that I've really gotten nervous. I'm afraid that none of them will fertilize, or that they won't survive until the transfer, or that there won't be any good ones to choose, or that they won't implant....blah, blah, blah. I can't really focus on anything other than being nervous about it, which is a terrible idea. I wish I knew how to turn off the worry button, but I don't.

It's also weird to know that in a doctor's office 45 minutes away, our potential child is growing- not in my body, but in a little dish. I suppose that knowledge should be freeing. There is nothing I can do physically to help the process or mess it up today. Soon, it will be my responsibility to house this embryo again, but right now, I'm sort of off the hook.

But it doesn't feel that way. It feels like there is a piece of me and Mike out there, and I have no control over whether or not it makes it through one of the toughest couple of days of its life.

So I'm trying not really to stay positive, but to stay neutral. Que Sera Sera and all of that. Whatever will be, will be. My girlfriend Amy likes to remind me to accept that there are thing beyond my control that I have to let go of. So, I will try to spend the next three to five days doing that as best I can.Stay tuned for more of me trying to stay sane/freaking out.

Post Egg Retrieval selfie- the drugs had me feelin' pretty good

I wasn't joking about the Nutter Butter

The sister dilemma

Practicing sisterhood with her friend Felix

Now that the cat's out of the bag on the whole fertility thing, we can talk about the "sister" problem. As I'm sure many children of a certain age are, Ella is wondering why she hasn't become a sister yet. Because she is three, many of her classmates have become big sisters over the past year, and she's started thinking that this is a natural part of getting older. You become a big girl; you become a big sister. Here's how many of our conversations go:

Ella: When am I going to be a big sister?
Me: When Mommy and Daddy have another baby.
Ella: Can you have a baby right now?
Me: Well, we're trying buddy, but we have to wait until the baby is ready to come.
Ella: Tomorrow?
Me: No, definitely not tomorrow. Babies take a long time to make.
Ella: Can we make one when we get home?

And so on, and so on. As if this wasn't bad enough, she's actually started lying to people. She told a girlfriend of mine and a teacher at her school that her mommy, "has a baby in her belly." They approached me all excited to hear the good news, and I had to sit Ella down and talk to her about lying. "But you're trying to have a baby," she said, looking guilty, and I told her, "Yes, Mommy is trying, but I don't have a baby in my belly yet, and you can't tell people that until I do. Once I do, you can tell any one you want."

The hardest part has been explaining to her what a sister actually is. She's got it in her head that "sister" is another word for "big girl." She'll say things like, "I have to eat my vegetables so I can become a sister," or she will ask me if big girl's she sees in various places are sisters. She also can't understand the whole big sister/little sister thing. She can't fathom that I am a little sister, or that one of the one-year-olds in the baby room at school is going to be a big brother. We talked about everyone we know who is a brother or a sister, and I tried to explain what made one "big" and one "little." She had it until she brought up her friend Kate who is a middle child. She said, "So, Kate is a big sister because her mommy had baby Claire!" I said, "Yes, Kate is a big sister, but she's also a little sister because she has a big brother." That conversation pretty much sent us back to square one.

The whole thing is pretty heartbreaking because I know exactly how she feels: everyone at school is becoming a big sister or brother, she wants it desperately, but there's nothing she can do about it. This thing she wants is completely out of her control. And man, do I know how that feels.

Luckily, I think she's finally getting it. Yesterday, she was pretty quiet on the way home from dance class. When I unbuckled her from her car seat, she said, "When you get a baby in your belly, I'll be a big sister, but you don't have a baby in your belly yet." I pulled her out of the chair very gingerly and gave her a big hug. "That's right, buddy, but until then, you'll be my baby." She smiled and hugged me back. And in that moment, it was enough for both of us.

A disappointment

At the ripe old age of 32, I know that life is filled with disappointment. Whether you have a charmed life or not, things are not always going to work out the way you'd hoped. I have come to accept this truth in my own life, but yesterday it suddenly occurred to me that now I have to accept it for another person's life, a tiny person, one so bright-eyed that I'd rather endure the most horrible disappointment imaginable than watch her deal with one ounce of it. And that, my friends, is called motherhood. Luckily, we're not talking about any life-altering disappointment here, just a little cancelled ballet class, but it was enough to bring one of us to tears (that would be me).

Ella has been talking about going to "ballerina" class for quite some time. She loves nothing more than to twirl and leap in full ballerina costume, and she has been begging us to take a dance class for at least four or five months. I waited until she turned three, then began pursuing a class that would be a good introduction- low-key, nothing too intense. I avoided places that advertised the number of awards they'd won, or the ones with glossy pictures of ten-year-olds trussed up like 1930's prostitutes. I found an inexpensive place near our house that advertised a fun, non-competitive, no recital, no polyester costume sort of dance class perfect for a wee one just starting out. About two weeks ago, I signed her up. Since that day, we've been talking about it. At least three times a day, she would ask me, "Is my ballerina class today, Mommy?" Finally, the day arrived, and I picked her up early from daycare, leotard and ballet shoes in hand, and we talked about what it meant to be in a dance class the whole way there.

Then we walked in the door, and there was no one else there, and the girl behind the counter looked surprised to see us. I tried to ignore all of these warning signs.

"We're here for the ballet class?" I said, both of our smiles plastered to our faces.

The woman did not return the smile.

"Oh gosh. I completely forgot to call you. That class was cancelled due to low enrollment."

My heart sank. Ella's head fell to my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," the woman said. "This never happens. I just completely forgot to call."

Normally, in times like these, I would have simply said, "Oh that's okay. No big deal." I am quick to forgive peoples' mistakes. That's the number one rule of life my mother taught me. "You can't get mad at people when they do something by accident." And this has always been a relatively easy rule for me to follow, but at that moment I realized that someone disappointing me feels a lot different than someone disappointing my little girl.

I didn't say anything. I wasn't mean, but I didn't tell her it was okay, and our sullen faces revealed our feelings. Of course, if the woman had called me the day before, the class still would have been cancelled. Ella still would have been sad, but to walk in there with her leotard and shoes all ready to go was more than I could handle. 

We walked out of the building and sat on the steps so I could explain things to her.

"The ballet class was cancelled, buddy."

"What's cancelled?"

"It means that there isn't going to be a class."

"Why?"

"Not enough kids wanted to go."

"Why didn't they want to do it?"

"I don't know. Because they're really silly, but we'll find another ballet class, okay?"

"Right now?"

"No, not right now, buddy. Now we have to go home."

The look on her little face just crushed me. I couldn't hold it in. It came at the end of a very bad day I'd had, and I just couldn't control myself. I started blubbering like an idiot on the drive home.

"Mommy, why are you crying?"

"I just feel really bad that you couldn't take your class today."

"It's okay, Mommy. We'll find another class."

She held my hand as we drove home, and I realized that she was going to be fine. It was just a dance class, afterall, not a broken heart, or a cut from the volleyball team, or a rejection letter from her top-choice college. It was the first of many disappointments in her life, and I realized that I was going to have to experience all of them with her, so I'd better suck it up and show her "It's okay," even when I feel like it isn't.

And I know I won't be able to fix every disappointment in her life, but for now, it's nothing a little Swan Lake and a popsicle can't fix. Thank God for YouTube and for little girls who are a lot tougher than their mothers.

"Just Ella"

As we drove to a school fundraiser the other night, the following conversation took place:

Ella:" Mom, I don't want to be Bonaldo anymore."
Me: "Okay, what do you want your last name to be?"
Ella: "No, I just want to be Ella."

This sort of conversation pretty much sums her up. As I've talked about endlessly on this blog, Ella B (excuse me, I mean "Just Ella") is a free spirit with a big personality. She knows exactly what she wants and doesn't want and isn't going to submit to any societal expectations, even when it comes to last names.

I saw her three-year-old personality in full force when we arrived at the restaurant for the fundraiser. She took her usual fifteen minutes to warm up to the crowd of teachers and students excitedly talking to her and telling her that they know me. She was not impressed by my apparent fame in the least. However, before I even realized it, she had shed her sweatshirt and was running around the restaurant in her super girl costume pretending to fly. She played a few rounds of hide and seek with a friend of mine, and downed an ice cream cone like it was her job. People were in awe of her: smile as wide as her face, tangled hair streaming behind her as she ran. She was captivating, mostly because she was doing whatever she wanted without worrying about what anyone thought (including the wait staff).

This display seemed incredibly appropriate given the event we were attending. As I said, it was a fundraiser for my school, but I didn't mention that it was for our PLAHD club, the gay-straight alliance that helps raise awareness and support for the LGBTQ community at our school. The club is not only for kids who are gay, but for anyone who supports the notion that we all deserve to live our lives free from discrimination, hate, and inequality based on sexual orientation, gender identity, etc.

It felt rather poignant, then, to see my daughter, entirely unaware of the fundraiser's purpose, running through a restaurant wearing a Halloween costume in March, being 100% herself just as all three-year-olds are. It got me thinking about when that all changes. At what point does it stop being okay to be ourselves? Sure, there are plenty of kids (these PLAHD club members to name a few) who refuse to let society stop them from being themselves, but we view them as kids who are making a decision to be individuals, and to some extent, making that decision may marginalize them. When will that happen to Ella? When will she have to stop and decide whether she's going to be herself or conform to some expectation of her culture or society? And what will she choose to do if being herself means being marginalized? Will she be confident enough to stay "Just Ella" if others decide they don't like what "Just Ella" stands for?

I mulled over these ideas as we enjoyed our sandwiches and fries, and some time after my friend left, Ella asked, "Where'd he go, Mommy?"  I told her he had to go home to, "have dinner with his husband." As soon as I said the words, I cringed at what her reaction would be. I assumed she would say something like, "Mommy, that's so silly! Boys don't have husbands!"

But she didn't say anything. She just kept on eating her ice cream cone as if I hadn't said anything funny at all. And I thought, wouldn't it be great if she grew up in a world where despite all the tough decisions she'll have to make about which parts of herself to let the world see, she won't have to worry about that one? Wouldn't it be great if being an openly gay teenager wasn't a brave decision?

I don't know how the world will view homosexuality in ten years. I hope that today is the beginning of something really positive, but I know there are still so many people out there who don't want a kid like Ella to be herself if being herself means offending their values. I'd like to think there is room in the world for a free spirit like Ella, but I just don't know. In the meantime, I hope "Just Ella" can find a way to keep wearing that super girl costume long after it doesn't fit. I hope she never lets it go.

All my hopes and fears

Normally I am the last person to write a political blog post. Truth be told, I have no idea how to lower the unemployment rate and no clue what to do about Libya. I'm a teacher, so I care about education, but Romney and Obama have pretty similar views when it comes to more accountability for teachers and higher expectations for student achievement. These are big issues: the economy, foreign affairs, education, but these are not the things that keep me up at night.

I define myself in a lot of ways: I'm a teacher, a woman, a writer, a feminist, a wife, a pretty good friend, a chocoholic, a lover of all things Princess Bride, but what I am more than anything else is a mother of a little girl. It is thoughts of her that dominate my mind on this election eve, and not in terms of whether or not she'll be able to find a job in twenty years (though of course I hope for that), or whether or not war will have obliterated the earth by the time she's fifteen (though I pray it won't have).

What I think about most is whether or not she'll be able to live her life the way she wants to, regardless of whether or not people approve of it. I want her to live in a world where she has control over two basic things: her own body and her own family.

It really doesn't feel like I'm asking for a lot here. To me, these feel like really basic rights. They feel like things I really shouldn't have to ask for. I hope that Ella will always be healthy and smart about her body, but I also hope that she will never be forced to have a child she doesn't want to have. I hope that she will grow up in a world where a difficult situation like that wouldn't be made worse by hopelessness of having no choice, and I can't understand why people want to take that right away from her.

I also hope that by the time she's all grown up she'll be incredulous over the same-sex marriage debate. I hope it will be so far in the past that she'll laugh at how old fashioned we were and say, "Really? Even in 2012 people cared about stuff like that?" I don't know whether my daughter is gay or straight, and it honestly makes no difference to me either way. My fear is that depending on this election, and the next, and the next, and the next, she might find herself in a country even more divided than this one, that we might become less accepting instead of more accepting. Is it possible that we could really move backwards instead of forwards? I don't know, but all I can think of is a thirty-year-old version of my daughter who wonders why she isn't allowed to marry the love of her life. How could I vote for someone who doesn't want that for her?

Maybe other people don't sit around thinking about these things, maybe you assume that your daughter will never make a stupid decision, or maybe you think she'll grow up to be just like you and none of these issues will matter in your life, but I don't have that kind of certainty. I have no idea whether or not Ella will share my values, share my "lifestyle," or make the same decisions I have made. What I hope is that I'm raising a daughter who will think for herself and who'll know that I support her, accept her, and love her no matter what. I can only hope that she'll grow up in a country that feels the same way.