The 2nd Annual Engagement Ring Fashion Show 2005

I finally have an excuse for Jerry to help me figure out how to get pictures on my blog! I'm not ambitious enough to do it on my own...I need a PURPOSE...

So, I was going thru my short blog-list and Joie's post was my catalyst.

In honor of the The 2nd Annual Engagement Ring Fashion Show 2005, the following is provided for your entertainment:

Jerry and I met in 1991 during an after-bar-hours party at his house. I was new to town and had met only a few people. When I got there, I was the odd-man out as no one knew me, but everyone else were buddies. I sat in the papason chair and picked up Car & Driver (I'm a closet gearhead), and Jerry came over and offered this as his pick-up line: "There's a Lamborghini-for- sale ad in the back of the magazine," to which I answered, "Oh really? Diablo or Countach?" and he was putty in my hand. Aaahh, you can almost smell the bloom of romance...

Years later, I had to give the ultimatum: we either get married or I'm outa' here. Basically, I guilted him to proposing. This was my reward for 5 years of persistance:

We were married a month before I turned 30...whew! That was 8 years ago. Here is my reward after 5 years of marrriage:

Ah, love...what a wonderful thing!

Tightrope Walking

Tuesday morn, which was our scheduled appt with our RE, Dr. M. (I’ll come up with a cute nickname one of these days), almost didn’t happen. Not because Jerry convinced me we could just talk to her on the phone, but because another catastrophic event had occurred that nearly cost me my sanity.

In some of my past posts, I have mentioned that Jerry and I are building a house. Not just any house. Our this-is-where-I-want-to-die house; our legacy to our child(ren). In April 2004, Jerry and I bought 10 acres of retired farmland just outside of city limits. It’s 100’ above the river valley, and if you have ever been in eastern part of Nebraska, you’d know that 100’ is like Mt. Everest. We then broke ground this August, and to date the walls for the basement and main floor have been framed, so things appear to be moving smoothly…except *dramatic pause* for the porch. We picked a farmhouse floor plan with a wrap-around porch. The step from the porch over the thresh-hold of the house was supposed to be a max 3-4”. Our builder poured the concrete Monday for the porch, and I went and looked at the progress Monday nite. At 4:30 a.m. Tuesday morning I woke up in a sweat. Something wasn’t right about what I had seen. I barely slept from that time until 7:00 a.m. when Jerry awoke. First words out of my mouth as he lay there barely conscious was to ask about the height of the thresh-hold. He remembered 4”. He actually remembered something obscure, so I was buoyed by the thought that our builder would’ve also remembered. By 8:30 a.m., we were heading out of town to make the 2 ½ hr trip to Dr. M’s office, and I was on the phone with the builder. “What’s the height between the porch and thresh-hold?” I asked. “7 inches,” he says. My adrenal gland exploded inside my head, and I handed the phone to Jerry who stuttered his way through the rest of the conversation. “I don’t remember talking about that,” my builder said. “Oh? I kinda’ remember…,” Jerry mumbles unconvincingly. We traded places in the car, as I can no longer drive. I am completely and utterly pissed off and ready to go postal. What you don’t understand is that we eliminated any house plan that did NOT have a walk-around porch. It is one of THE most important aspects of this house. If it had been ANY other part of the house that had the same type of logistical error (ooops, forgot to plumb the house; ooops, the master bedroom is a 5x5 closet), I would’ve barely blinked. How crazy am I? For a split second (or more), I even considered canceling our doctor’s appt. Now, how crazy am I?

Instead, I cried and wailed for a good 20 minutes about a porch. A friggin’ porch, people!

Sooo, we finally make our destination. I’m exhausted. Jerry is…well, Jerry. He remains unfazed by this cataclysmic event. Instead, he calmly tells me there is nothing we can do about it right now and that we should wait until we get back home and talk to the builder. He was so la-ti-da about it. This is same person who goes into a tirade when Max won’t put on his socks. He’s got emotional dyslexia, I’m tellin’ ya’!

…Anyhooble, now to the relative part of my post: we are escorted to Dr. M’s office and she joins us and summarizes our two failed IUIs with this: Ideally, for IUI they would like to see a count of 2M, post-wash. For the first IUI, Jerry’s count was 700K; for the second it was only 300K. How low is that? It’s so low that standard IVF is not recommended. We have been moved to the short-bus, ICSI. Dr. M. discussed our odds mentioning that we have had a relatively problem-free pregnancy in 2001 and that the baby from the miscarriage was lost due to chromosomal anomalies. She discussed the schedule protocol and I have calculated that including the one month of The Pill, we would be looking to do the procedure around the first half of December.

I should be happy, right? We didn’t have to discuss a donor, so Jerry’s happy. We will be paying out of our pocket for all expenses, so the clinic is happy. So why does my heart feel so heavy and as if it will drop into my stomach? It’s because this is IT. This is our Last Chance. The beginning of the end. If we are unsuccessful, there is no way that we can afford to go a second round. If you are lucky enough to have ANY insurance coverage for infertility, count your blessings. I mean it. We have now put all of our eggs into one basket…literally and figuratively, and set me out on a tight-rope that spans the Grand Canyon.

I’m scared, really and truly scared.

As for the house? This morning our builder called to tell us that he will correct his mistake, at no charge. For this I am grateful, but feel guilty for calling him every name in the book, behind his back of course. Now if only fate, karma, kismet, or whatever you want to call it, can give me the same sense of relief, I will know that I haven’t been calling the extra bedroom in the house “the baby’s room” for nothing. Do you think by doing so I am jinxing myself? Have you ever felt that by posting your worst nightmare that you either bring it to life or successfully ward it off?

Letter%men's Top 10: Why Dawn is Mad at Jerry

Today is the first day of Jerry's week-long vacation, which he had to take from his employer before the end of the month or lose it. I get home from work, and I nearly took off his head. Here's why:

10. He didn't mow the yard, and the house is starting to look abandoned, which would be perfect if I was going for the look of the season: haunted.

9. He can't seem to get his socks into the laundry basket (that or the basket spontaneously pukes them out).

8. He snores, even though we paid for the removal of two healthy tonsils and a LAUP, which completely grosses out his dental hygenist.

7. I have to prompt him to acknowledge his son when Max says, "Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?"

6. He spent the weekend in Minnesota enjoying some male-bonding and his hobby, RC Racing and came home complaining about how tired he was. Boo hoo.

5. The dishwasher wasn't emptied, but was opened because couldn't find a clean sippy cup for Max.

4. The clean clothes I had folded and left in the laundry basket were still sitting in the laundry basket...underneath our fat, long-haired psychotic cat, who happens to be molting.

3. He said I can't be on the computer because earlier I had been complaining about how tired I am. Excuse me? Just who the F**k do you think you're talking to? I'm 38 years old. I'll do whatever I damn well please, thank you.

2. He still hasn't figured out how to sort the dirty laundry into the three bins. It's the same system we have had since 1997, and all his clothes go into the ONE bin. Duh!

And the number one reason Dawn is mad at Jerry...?
.
.
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1. He doesn't think it's necessary to meet with our RE tomorrow, "Why can't she just talk to us on the phone?" Oh, I don't know...maybe because it's really flippin' important, you thoughtless boob!

What "Lurking" Means To Me

The past couple of weeks since our 3rd IUI (or 2nd depending on whether or not you get to count the cancelled IUI) presented us with yet another Big Fat Negative, I found myself more and more of a lurker than blogger, and I'm not sure what to think about that. I wanted to blog because I felt it was a good way to "talk" out the insecurities, pain, and general crappy feelings I was going through with other bloggers going through this soulsuckingheartbreaking ordeal politely referred to as infertility. Frankly, I thought posting would make me feel better. I don't know if it has.

Instead as a lurker, I find myself linked to the same incredibe cache' of friends. Yes, friends. No one is a stranger, and I have yet to find one comment to any post in the past 3 months I've been surfing the IF Blogger's World that was anything but positive and uplifting. THAT makes me feel better.

Maybe I don't feel it's appropriate to post about IF when Jerry and I have decided to sit this round out. Right now, I feel like I should just log out and go to bed instead of posting what right now feels like a token offering to what few lurkers I have. In fact, I'm grimacing at my screen now, and if I'm not careful, the botox will wear off long before the 5 months has come to pass.

On the other hand, I need to stay in a groove. The appointment with Dr. M. for this coming Monday was postponed to Tuesday, and then nearly cancelled as her father has become quite ill, which I'm surprised her clinic would allow the staff to mention. I have not breathed another word about a donor to Jerry. I will see how well he stands his ground when a professional tells him that it may be only one of our two choices, with the other being laying out a great deal of cash, which we just don't have right now. He can tell me in the privacy of our bedroom and under the cloak of pride that he wants a baby to be "ours", but once in the harsh light of reality and statistics, he may put aside all that and let his heart guide him. And, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants Max to have a baby brother or sister.

So, I will hold onto that sliver of hope like some piece of driftwood and hope that the waters don't get too rough or change course.

P.S. I would like to personally and publicly thank Thalia for adding my link to her blog page; and to Barren Mare who sent me the most heart-warming thank-you anyone could possibly deserve. You two are at the top of my list (the GOOD one), and have touched me deeply with your sincerity, wisdom and strength.

Ah, Love...!

I've been thinking about my post all day after what happened last night during the fundraiser. I haven't had the patience in the past to go into a lot of blogging detail, and quite frankly, my summarizations of the current events have barely warranted a blip on the radar. But the events from yesterday...ah, where to I begin...

First, I should explain that the fundraiser, which is put on by the private Catholic school, is basically an opportunity to play dress-up for the middle- to upper-class couples in our town. Silent and oral auction items are used to create funding for the school. Since 2001, I have attended each year, and for the past 2 years, I have attended alone. Jerry finds the whole business boring and I think he thinks it's too high brow for him. But it's really not like that. I probably wouldn't attend if it wasn't for the graciousness of Jerry's folks who have always been huge contributers, and who pay for our tickets as a way to get us involved. When Jerry had attended in the past, it was always a chore to pull him away from one group of people who wanted to chat it up to the next, so I'm not sure why he complains.
"It's boring," he says.
"Whatever," I think.
I'm very proud to know that even though Jerry comes from a family who people normally react with, "Oh, you're soandso's son!!", he is actually the MOST down-to-earth and non-assuming person I have ever met. It almost embarrasses him when people recognize his last name.

Jerry had made it quite clear weeks ago he would not attend, but would offer up some of his creativity and time to custom paint a golf cart to be offered in the oral auction, which is what he has done in the past. Again, I have to toot his horn as he never would, he is the best auto-body repair and paint man around. His father, a brilliant engineer and VP of a well-known company has never understood why one of his three sons would want to work with his *gasp* hands. And so it goes, to help out without actually having to hob-knob, he uses his talent to appease his parents. I try to convince him that he should attend as it was one of the rare opportunities to have adult-only interaction as a couple, and always, to no avail.

Anyway, I made plans to be there to meet with my friends, S. and B. around 5:30pm. Jerry and I worked on few "honey-dos" around the house and then I suggested he take Max to my folk's house on the farm so he can help my Mom with a faulty door. He got his tools and packed up some things for Max, including his pillow, blanket and burpie (some kids have lovies, Max has a burpie) as he had not yet napped for the day and he left the house about 2:00pm. I took my time and started getting ready. Hair, makeup, dress, last-minute panic about hosiery and some spilt makeup on my dress, and by 5:30pm, I was out the door with a call to Jerry to see how things were going. The door was fixed and he was wrapping things up.

I arrived at the school, that had been transformed for the evening to an underwater theme, complete with paper fish dangling from the ceiling, and quickly met up with my friends. Several times I was stopped with the question, "Where's Jerry?" to which I could only respond, this type of thing is not his thing. I spent some time checking out some auction items, especially the home improvement stuff, which I had been given the OK from by Jerry since we would need it for the new house, and blissfully became a regular at the temporary martini bar.

After I had pretty much made my rounds, I went to check the seating arrangements at my table to see who I was going to be paired with since I was one of the few (besides the requisite clergy), to be dateless. The name next to mine was unfamiliar, but my SIL informed me he was a friend of Father, and I should try to keep things tame until we could get a better feel for his overall personality.

I walked from area to area stopping with my friends while they signed up for a raffle, and I took a moment to scope out the room. I did a double-take. There across the room, was the face of a man I never thought I would see there. Our eyes met. My heart leapt. I felt a blush move over my cheeks. It was Jerry. Clean shaven and looking absolutely handsome. We each moved away from the people we had been mingling with towards each other and met in the middle. I was totally giddy with emotion, and if you hadn't known us better, you wouldn't have been able to guess we had been together for 13 years as I greeting him with a crusing hug and big kiss. He asked, "Are you surprised?" "Delightfully so!" I answered. If we hadn't been in a school, a Catholic school none-the-less, we would have found the nearest dark corner and made out.

Needless to say, I forgot that I was there to try to drown our infertility sorrows, even if it was for one night. Instead, I realized as crappy as things have been and with the all the recent disappointments, I know that Jerry will always be there. My rock and the true-love of my life. The optimism is back, and feel as if our love has been rejuvenated. At this very moment, I want for nothing.

Light-Weight

I came home from work for lunch today, something I haven't done in a long time, but figured left-overs was better than what was being offered at the employment's "mess-hall." I turned on the kitchen's TV and I was immediately sucked into an airing of "A Baby Story." Compare me to little blond girl sitting in front of a TV, whispering, "They're heeeeere."

On the bright side, I have been anticipating this coming weekend as an opportunity to do something I haven't done in a long time: IMBIBE (get blizted!). I am going to attend a fundraiser tomorrow nite, for which I did find a dress that fits much better, and I have already warned my husband. Unfortunately, I'm sure it will be the point that I'm into my 2nd glass of wine, and I'll be "woooohoo! clear the table!" Too bad my new dress doesn't come with a boa or tassels. Talk about a cheap date! I really can't wait. It's been a long time since I got just cut loose in the company of great friends and an open bar.

River of Denial? That's Original!

Last night, after Max was put to bed and Nip/Tuck was over, I looked into the dark and still waters that are my husband’s disapproval of a sperm donor, took a deep breath and dove in head-first. I’m not sure if it was the shock of how cold it was or the sudden ‘thunk’ of my head hitting an immovable object that sent me reeling and gasping back to the safety of the shore. Whatever it was, it wasn’t what I had hoped, but pretty much what I had expected.

I’m not known for my subtlety, but I swear I was as calm and quiet as Buddha knowing that any high-pitched, fast-talking bullshit would send him running. It was all for naught. He says he just isn’t comfortable with the idea of an IUI with donor. He wants the “baby to be ours,” to which I countered with the impossible scenario: If some woman stopped by our house with a baby or child and said, “I just cannot take care of my child, and I know you would make perfect parents.” would he turn around with an apologetic, “Oooh, gosh. I’m sorry, but since that baby isn’t OURS, we just couldn’t take care of it.” Not like that would ever happen, but he knows he would never do that.

I then tried to steer him into the realm of possibilities. Maybe the doctor will recommend some additional testing. Maybe there’s been some blockage. To this Jerry responded, “I thought you were already tested for that?”
Huh? WTF! “Uh, not me, honey, you.”
“Oh.”
That simple interaction to me indicated he is on some level of denial about the Male Factor. He even mentioned that we probably weren’t timing things correctly before we sought out the professional assistance of an RE. Those waters I dove into? They appear to be the River of Denial. Hardeharhar!

I will drop the subject for a while and again push that fuckin’ white elephant back in the corner and cover it with a giant slip-cover and some fringed pillows and call it my chaise, just in case anyone notices.

Panning for Gold

I was reading through my Blogtopia tonite and I started feeling sorry for myself as I saw how each couple was progressing through their issues of infertility, even in day-to-day goings ons. Sure, some are facing the end of yet another unproductive cycle, pardon the pun, but they are still evolving, moving as it were, towards something. I have concerns that Jerry and I have become static in our own little world. Neither of us mention the white elephant that has snuck into our bedroom, which has been diagnosed with low sperm count and poor motility (not to mention "old eggs"). Do we want to know why? Or do we want to know if there's anything we can do about it? I do, but I have no idea if he does. I'm afraid to ask thinking I will push him, push us, out of this "comfort zone" of doing nothing into...what? I just don't know. Maybe it will move us forward, but I'm so afraid it will make us fall back. Fall into depression, resentment, finger-pointing, or even worse, silence.

It's these moments when my heart feels heavy that I am reminded that for every millisecond of sadness I feel, there is immeasurable joy.

Tonight while I was playing with Max, he asked me to lay on the floor, flat on my back. Suddenly he jumped on top of me, mommy-face to little-boy face, knocking the breath out of me in one short whoosh. Then he said, out of the clear-blue, "I love you, Mommy." and he puckered up and kissed me on the lips.

I nearly burst into tears, so unexpected and spontaneous was his declaration. Max has never been demonstrative, and usually wipes away my kisses with the sleeve of his shirt accompanied by the statement, "Boys don't like kisses," making me wonder where a 3 year old would hear such a thing. But this was my "Snap out of it!" call, loud and clear. It's these little nuggets of joy that could easily be washed away by a muddy river of sorrow and self-pity if I didn't start paying close attention.

Call 555-SPRM to Become a Donor Now!

I made a phone call to a fellow co-worker today and got her voice-mail. This is how it basically went: "This is Jane Doe and I'm not available right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call. If you are calling with college football tickets, you may call me at home at 555-1234 or on my mobile at 555-9876."

That gave me a brilliant idea! I am going to change my voice mail to basically the same except I am looking for sperm donors. "If you would like to donate sperm, you may reach my RE at 555-SPRM." It's brilliant! However, I'm thinking for as unprofessional I found the voice-mail about tickets, I think someone would surely find my new message a tad inappropriate. Fertiles can be so uptight. I know. I once was one.

Even though the idea may have crossed my mind, at this point, Jerry has got to come to terms with this "Male Factor" thing. He has taken the expected position that I'm sure many men side with when faced with the fact that HIS sperm is just not able to cut it and potentially someone else's might. What makes this harder for him is that up to a year ago, there was no male factor.

For Jerry, this raises more than just a concern about what has always been the inside joke of the male populance, which is the ability the little guys have in swimming. He fears that he may never feel that it's HIS baby if we were to pursue and find success in the use of a donor for an IUI. I cannot even fathom such a thought. To me, any baby foolishly left unattended long enough for me to sneak it home would in a instance become mine. That's why I could easily entertain adoption. Unfortunately, the fact is that at this time with Jerry voicing without question how uncomfortable he is with a donor, he has nixed adoption as an option.

I know that it is prudent for me at this time to back off. Jerry has a tendency to dig in, much like E's recent stand with Mare. To Jerry's relief, we currently are under no restrictions, eg the Pill, a drug-induced schedule, etc. We actually get to go back to the old standby, and that's doin' it the old-fashioned way, at least until we decide what type of intervention we will need IF we should need it.

I left Jerry with this thought to mull until we meet with our RE on the 24th and that is being a father is more than DNA, and he knows that in his head. It's his heart that needs to be convinced. Case in point: a friend of mine has a son from a relationship with her high-school sweetheart, Rob. 10 years later, she married her soul-mate, Tom. She considers Tom her son's dad. Rob, the biological father, was the sperm donor. I found that very profound. I can only hope Jerry does, too.

HPT Anonymous and Segway

Dawn: “Hi. My name is Dawn.”

Group: “Hi, Dawn.”

Dawn: “Uh, I’m a 38 year old post-fertile infertile and I’m addicted to HPTs.”

Group: (Sympathetic murmurs)

Dawn: “I started using HPTs after my miscarriage November 2004, and the last time I used was yesterday after I got home from work.”

Group: (More sympathetic murmurs)



This was how I had envisioned my post for today. Unfortunately, some things have happened that now make the above start inconclusive.

My period started this morning. No surprise, but an ominous sign of my day to come. I called the RE’s office to let them know and to see when I should schedule my baseline. I thought I had prepared myself for the worst: wait ‘till Saturday, take the HPT as scheduled, come in Monday a.m. for the US, be advised I have more cysts, and be sent home with another package of birth-control pills and wait out another grueling 3 weeks for my next period AND realize that this now makes it impossible for me to be pregnant by November 10, 2005 - then anniversary date of our first miscarriage.

But noooooo…I get a call back from the RE’s office to let me know that we should seriously consider moving onto IVF based on Jerry’s numbers from the last IUI. That’s not so bad, right? It’s not an unexpected move on either my RE’s or our own parts. We had just thought we would wait until January when we could change plans on my insurance which covers “Infertility.” Except, what I didn’t realize until just a few hours ago is what my insurance company considers coverage for “Infertility.” 1.) No injectable drugs. OK, we can cover that. 2.) Maximum benefit $2,500.

Let me put it to you this way. $2,500 is the maximum benefit the insurance company will pay out in a LIFETIME for infertility treatments, AFTER we pay any applicable deductibles and coinsurance (20%). Can anyone tell me what kind of treatment for infertility $2,500 would ever cover! One, maybe part of a second, round of IUI with your own eggs and sperm. After that the insurance company must figure that anything beyond is “elective” and not “medical in nature”. HORSESHIT!

This is the same insurance company that pays for erectile dysfunction medication for a 70+ year old man. I’m thinking that’s pretty elective.

OK. So a couple hours passed since that all came down the crapper. That’s when I finally called Jerry with the news and our next options.
1) Continue on with IVF and figure out how to come up with the money, while at the same time get a house built within this decade.
2) Consider another IUI using donor sperm.
3) Decide to make Max our Show Pony.

As much as I love Max, I know from growing up with 5 siblings and my husband 4, an only child is not what we had envisioned. For those without children, this statement may strike you as selfish, and I can only say I’m sorry. But knowing how much Max loves to play with other children, it’s not fair to him if there’s a chance we could do more.

The first choice is fraught with the obvious problems.

It’s No. 2 that was the proverbial straw. Jerry said “no”.

When we initially met with Dr. M. back in July, this topic came up and I quite clearly remember Jerry saying as long as a baby could be part one of us, that option was just that – an option.

Maybe he never thought this is where we would be. I didn’t. Not in a million years.

Prenatal Vitamins, Kielbasa and BBQ Chips

I daily go through my favorite blogs on infertility, lurking, scavenging on the bits of information that help feed my need to know that I am not alone. Every one of them has posted something that I can say, “That’s EXACTLY how I feel! or thinking!” If it wouldn’t be so blatantly rude, I would just simply cut-and-paste blurbs from others into my own just because they seem to verbalize such day-to-day topics in a way that makes such seemingly bland topics as taking pre-natal vitamins a potential script for a Seinfeld episode.

I am feeling down on myself and right now just need to decompress. This morning I was contemplating how ironic it would be if my body, which I used to think I knew so well, decided to pull an about-face by producing a positive HPT on Saturday. This would be it’s own private joke and only a continuation of its never-ending ability to take what should be easy, i.e. getting pregnant, staying pregnant, etc., and instead giving me a wake up call that I never could have prepared myself for: getting pregnant, losing pregnancy, no longer able to get pregnant “naturally” in a matter of a few months. Now I look in the mirror and see a woman too late into her 30’s to start wishing “We should have tried earlier.” hahahahaha!! Who hasn’t said that AFTER the fact??

I also see how I went from being a dress size 4 to an 8 in just a couple of years, POST-baby! I’ve gained more weight in the time since Max was born in 2001 than I think I did in my pregnancy with him. Jerry hints from time-to-time that my butt’s getting bigger, but I try to convince myself he’s just teasing. It wasn’t until I tried on one of my dresses I had purchased for a wedding a few years ago to see if it fit for an upcoming semi-formal event that I was horrified to see that his teasing was justified. Nothing had changed from the rib-cage and up, but OH-MY-GOD, WHAT-THE-FUCK-HAPPENED-TO-MY-ASS! was staring back at me from the mirror. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear someone snuck into my closet and sewed in the side-seams 2 inches on both side! If I had tried to sit, I would have busted out like a kielbasa in boiling water. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I tried putting on a tummy-tucker pair of underwear AND a waist-corset pulled low to my hips. Even if I had been able to breath, my ass still resembled a balled-up sock stuffed into a nylon.

So, I called for information on the local yoga place. I hate exercise and this seems the closest to it without actually continuing to sit on the couch. I am trying to convince Jerry that my weight-gain has all been recent due to the FSH and trigger shots. I don’t think he’s buying it especially when he pointed out that my lunch consisted of a bowl of BBQ chips and Pepsi. He’s a sly bastard!

So anyway, I’m hoping that this gives me the new outlook I need on my life right now. I think karma is telling me I need to start feeling better about myself mentally before it’s going to let me move into the physical satisfaction of pregnancy. I raise my can of Pepsi in salutation to the “downward dog” and “cobra pose”!

You Have Eyes In the Back of Your Head, Too?

In my gut, I know that IUI #2 has failed. Confirmation should arrive later this coming week. I'm sure that my period won't tease me into thinking "Maybe" by showing up Saturday afternoon, AFTER I have already had to take the pee test.

Even Jerry has noted my impending state by pointing out the obvious, "You sure have been bitchy and tired lately." Really? No Shit! The thing is the bitchy part has only partly to do with getting a confirmation of what I already know, but the additional kick in the teeth of having to take a whole 'nother month off due to my new hanger-ons, The Cysts. Jerry, ever the optimist said he would like to try another IUI if there are no cysts, but is entertaining the idea of holding off until January.

The thought of waiting that long, which in the grand scheme of ART is not THAT long, is just another kick in the teeth. However, I know that it would give us time to prep physically and financially. I really didn't think we would be struggling as we were. We didn't have any idea of what we were doing when we got pg with Max (outside of the usual birds/bee thing), and now we can't get it right with the available medical intervention. We're pathetic.

On the brighter side and speaking of Max: several months ago I convinced him that I have very special eyes in the back of my head that allows me to catch him in the act. My duplicity was enhanced by the use of strategically placed mirrors around the house. Well, last Thursday he was excitingly describing some pictures on the wall behind his teacher, Mrs. N. while at school. As she was already aware of these items, she told Max, "Yes, I know," to which he responded, "You have eyes in the back of your head, too??"