A plan, sort of

I called my doctor.

It only took me about two months, a huge weight gain, a very weird cycle, and lots of fatigue mixed with some energy at rather odd times to take the leap. But I called Monday and left a message, not expecting to hear back from a nurse for a while since I know my doctor is very busy and not always in the office.

But he woke me up with a call yesterday and I was ecstatic.

At my request, he is switching me to compounded progesterone. I haven't picked it up yet, but I'm pretty sure he said I'll take it orally, twice a week post-peak. Is anyone familiar with that kind?

I also asked (finally) about taking armour instead of synthroid and he is all for it. I was actually surprised to hear that 70-percent of his hypothyroid patients are on it. I knew he prescribed it, but I didn't know I was actually in the minority in that I didn't take it. He said about once a year there's a shortage and when there is, he doesn't like to start people on it. So when I first came in years ago it might have during one of those times. I also wonder if he never put me on it because I came to him both times (during infertility and recently, post-having-Luke) already taking thyroid medication and he just didn't switch it up.

I mentioned my recent huge weight gain and he said to start taking a low dose of DHEA. Anyone have experience with this?

I also asked about taking HCG and, again, he was definitely open to it (I love my doctor!). He said he wants to try to new progesterone for a couple cycles first, and if that doesn't lengthen the luteal phase and help with PMS, then we'll switch to HCG.

Speaking of my luteal phase, that was all sorts of messed up this time around. It was so bad that I'm actually proud of myself for not coming here and writing all about how I'm never going to conceive again. It's apparently a new monthly tradition.

This time around I started spotting on peak plus 8. I've never done that before. I spotted for four days, had one day of a period (or something that briefly resembled it), followed by four more days of spotting. What?!

Another interesting thing about this past cycle was it was the first time since October that I didn't have bad instestinal-like cramps a week after ovulation (although that's probably because I was already spotting by then!).

I told Dr. B about everything and he thinks the cramping is due to the low progesterone causing my colon to cramp, and he actually suggested a laxative to counteract that. Have you ever heard of doing that? I probably won't try it, because honestly I don't care about the cramping, I only care about whether it's a sign of something that's getting in the way of pregnancy. The low progesterone likely is, and we'll hopefully fix that. I'm just thankful it wasn't an immediate red flag to him of some other bigger problem.

He also thinks the reason I didn't cramp this time around is because I most likely didn't ovulate. Is it weird that the thought of that actually makes me excited?

I think I'd rather things be noticeably messed up, rather than everything appearing normal and still not working. And having an anovulatory cycle makes me think that maybe, just maybe, my cycles are off due to breastfeeding.

Oh, please let my cycles be off due to breastfeeding!

And it suddenly makes a ton of sense because I actually had high levels of prolactin during infertility! Follow me here... prolactin is what rises during breastfeeding and keeps many women from conceiving while they're nursing. So let's assume those women who are able to conceive while breastfeeding perhaps don't have super high prolactin levels. Maybe they're higher than normal, but not so high that they are infertile. But... if mine was high before breastfeeding, it's also safe to assume it would be high while breastfeeding. And hopefully high prolactin is what's keeping me from getting pregnant.

I actually didn't ask Dr. B about that, so that theory is all made up by me. But it makes sense, right?

So, the big question remains - do I stop breastfeeding? I'm still doing it, on average, four times a day. And he still appears to love it. He asks for it by lifting up my shirt and even still gets that intoxicated baby look.

I know him loving it doesn't mean I can't wean him, but it just makes the decision all the more difficult. And he's not the only one who's into it. I love breastfeeding. I love it and fear it will be the last time I get to do it. I know I should be thankful I was able to do it at all, and I am, but it's still hard to see it come to an end.

One person who'd love to see it stop is Clara. She can't stand when my shirt is up and comes right up to me and pulls it down. "Down, Mommy! Shirt down!" she says. At first it was just when I would leave it up when I wasn't sure if Luke was done, but now she sometimes does it mid-nursing. Oh our Little Miss Modesty.

I'm going to pray about what to do about breastfeeding. I just cannot decide. I'm leaning towards continuing, but then I think about time and my age, and all those things that bring with them anxiety.

The anxiety of secondary infertility is creeping in a lot lately. Especially at night when I'm trying to sleep. Something about that 35 number. It's really getting to me.

But I know that's not of God. I need to give it all up to Him. I have a (sort of) plan, and we'll give it a few more months. Then I'll start freaking out ;)

I'll leave you with a photo, since cycle update posts aren't very visual, and I like visual. Here's the little nurser himself, probably saying, "Please don't tell my mama to stop nursing me! Cut a baby a break!"...

40 Days

I'm on an email list for Richmond's 40 Days For Life campaign, despite the fact that I haven't participated since becoming a mom. I click on the sometimes daily emails, but rarely read them.

Then yesterday something made me not only read, but decide to go. I think it was a Lent thing. I don't mind going to 40 Days - when I used to go several times a week, I actually liked it, in a way - but the thought of going with my kids terrified me. Any time I had a passing thought of going I would immediately get a mental picture of my kids screaming and moaning for me to leave. I couldn't imagine them putting up with being in the stroller but not really going anywhere. 

And then there's what I really hate - getting them all ready, buckling them into car seats, getting them out, buckling them into the stroller, getting them back into their car seats, putting the stroller in the trunk... well, that is my idea of penance. 

So, I knew I had to go. The second I began to think about how much I didn't want to do it, I knew it was the perfect opportunity to stretch myself on this Lenten Friday. And so I did. 

It helped that it was a beautiful day - 80 degrees and sunny. And, to my surprise, Clara and Luke were amazing. They sat through two Rosaries (we walked back and forth in front of the abortion clinic) without making a peep. We prayed with two nice ladies until they had to leave, and since no one else showed up, I decided to stay until my kids became unruly. We ended up staying another hour! 

I let Clara get out of the stroller for the last ten minutes, which she loved. She even waved to passing cars. 

They had a lot to look at, which was key. There was a busy intersection for them to watch, the occasional fire truck, and lots of dogs. I think Luke was barking for about ten minutes straight at one point. 

I'm going to try to go with them every Friday now that I know they can handle it. But then there's me. I have a lot of work to do. As I walked back and forth, praying the Rosary, nearly out of breath in the 80 degree sun, I compared it in my mind to running. I don't particularly like running, I'm not the type of person who would choose to run just for the fun of it. If I did run, I'd be so tired that with every step I would want to quit. But when it was over, I'd be happy I did it. 

That's how praying is for me. I'm out of shape. Very out of shape. Forty minutes in, and with fifty to go, I was mentally exhausted. I wanted to pack it all in and go home. 

What a terrible thing to admit, right? I should love praying. Love saying the Rosary. And the heartache that abortion causes me should make me want to stand out there hours on end. 

But I'm weak. 

So, in the end, I learned it's not about my kids hacking it. It's about their mother. Hopefully with God's grace, I can get myself there at least once a week this Lent. It's the least I can do. 

Sibling craziness

About a month ago, Clara, Luke and I were at a friend's house for a play date. The mother noticed and commented on the fact that my kids got along so well together.

"Are they always this good with each other?" she asked, surprised.

"Ya, I guess," I said, realizing I hadn't ever given it much thought. "They never really fight and if they both want the same thing, or Clara gives Luke a little push or something, she immediately seems to feel bad and gives him a kiss."

Going in for the kiss

I felt weird saying my kids got along so well. Was I glossing over the bad? Had I missed their fighting? No, I was fairly confident I would have noticed it.

Later that night as I was going over the conversation with Ryan, we remembered a few other people had recently pointed it out as well. So I started thinking - were my kids angels? Or was one of them an angel? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Luke was a normal one-year-old boy who likes to barge in and take whatever he wants, and Clara was extremely patient with him. He would come right up to her and steal her sippy cup or toy, and she would just let him have it. 

The reason there was no fighting was all because of Clara. My sweet, patient Clara.

Sharing with her baby bro

Well, those days are over. Give her a dose of a nasty virus plus a double ear infection and barely any sleep for a few weeks and the girl is fighting back. At least for now, she is no longer turning the other cheek and kissing her baby brother on the head when he steals her toy. She is cranky and fed up.

And that means my kids are crazy. Ca-ray-zee. They fight all day long. Whatever toy one of them is playing with, the other wants it, tries to get it, a battle ensues and both end up crying, screaming and pushing.

I'm not sure how to handle it because a) I usually don't know who started it, b) Luke's not even a year-and-a-half and our pediatrician swears he won't "get" time-out, c) I think she has a point because all the kid does is laugh when he's in trouble, and d) I gave up yelling for Lent. Any suggestions?

Today, Ryan had them outside blowing bubbles while I made lunch and I could hear him start to yell. It turns out they both wanted a stick and they ended up wrestling on the ground. My babies! Is it bad that the mental picture actually makes me chuckle? It probably wouldn't if I'd been the one with them at the time.

This one is FULL of it lately (and his eye is infected here, in case you noticed)

I'm hoping this will pass when Clara feels 100-percent again. I'm hoping she goes back to being this ridiculously understanding two-year-old who gets that Luke's a baby and she's the big girl. I'm hoping she starts just kissing him again when he wrongs her. 

But I'm not holding my breath.

So by the time I realized I had a very patient two-year-old, her patience had run out. I don't blame her. I never had a little brother, but I can imagine they're not all sunshine and roses. Well, our Bruisey is pretty sunshine-y. And, seriously, how can you not share with this sweet ginger...

Yes, she'll be back under his spell in no time ;)

Anger

First, I just wanted to thank you all for your prayers that I asked for on my last post. Mom and baby are doing great. Baby Eric will be in the NICU for several more weeks, as can be expected in situations like this, but is doing well. So again, thank you!

*******

I've been angry lately.

It's like this uncontrollable rage inside of me that spews from my mouth in the direction of (usually) my husband and (sometimes) my babies. Things that should be small issues, handled delicately, with a soft voice instead become the BIGGEST PROBLEM OF ALL TIME.

I see it happening. I feel the tension build in my mind. I'm just going to bring it up, I tell myself, because then I'll feel better. It won't be a huge issue, I lie.

And then, like clockwork, I sound mean and snotty and all hell breaks loose. Probably also because it's not the one time I rudely pointed something out, but the fifteenth time that morning.

With the kids, I hear my strained voice when I yell their name. I feel it when I pick Clara up to carry her to time out. I'm short and mean.

I'd love to blame it on PMS. Or, at this point, I should probably call it just general "hormones." Unless I go with a four-week-long PMS. I guess I can take my pick.

Or, I could blame it on the whole state of affairs in this country. This has been my personal preference for blame on most days. Even one liberal status update on Facebook can send me into a tailspin. Or the news. Or television shows. Don't even get me started. I had to turn SNL off the other night and vowed to never watch again. I make a vow like that at least once a week and they rarely hold. But it's really getting to me, as it should because it's our faith, our country, our children's future, precious unborn babies being murdered every day. But as horrible as all that is, I can't let it control my home life, you know? And I don't think Jesus wants it to cause me to yell at my husband about how he doesn't sweep the floor right (oh, yes I have). I'll gladly accept any tips on finding a healthy way to compartmentalize this.

Sometimes I wonder if this is how I'm subconsciously dealing with secondary infertility. It's so different from before. Instead of having sadness and despair, it's causing me anxiety. I'm on edge. Maybe that's turning into emotional outbursts directed at the ones I love.

I could also try to blame it on the fact that Clara's been sick for more than a week and now I am too. And Clara was sick a few weeks ago too, which means she wasn't sleeping through the night for the better part of a month. Clara waking up means Luke sometimes waking up, which means both parents up (that's not counting Luke's first waking, which happens every night around 9 or 10). And Clara's just crazy when she wakes in the night. Inconsolable. Speaking of inconsolable, she's been like that during the day lately too, which the doctor says is from her being sick. I hope so. If this is the start of the true Terrible Two's then I think I'll need a therapist.

I got in a fight with my iphone the other day. No, really. I even picked it for no reason. I didn't even need Siri's help, but I randomly decided to tell her that she never, ever helps me (she doesn't). I told her Apple needs to make her work better. And that if I wanted to google something, then I'd just do that in the first place.

After a little back and forth, it ended with her telling me she was sorry she let me down. I apologized, too, for getting so upset.

When I told Ryan that story he immediately asked why I apologized to her, when I rarely do to him. Because her apology was just so sincere, I said. She was sorry she let me down. I think I really needed to hear that.

So, clearly, I have a problem. Ryan doesn't deserve it, and my kids definitely don't. And I think while all of the reasons I list may contribute to my anger, it's really all my fault.

If I was smarter and more introspective, this would be the part of the post where I explain why it's all my fault, which would likely have something to do with pride and my relationship with God. But, I'm not, so instead I'll say this: I'm going to spend the next 40 days trying to figure it out.

And not just figuring out why I'm angry - because does that really matter? - but, rather, how I can be not angry.

And "not angry" is not the opposite of happy. Because I'm extremely happy. I'm happy, joyful, I have fun. I just have outbursts of anger. I turn the heat unnecessarily up. I have a difficult time controlling myself.

So I hope and pray that I can get it under control. I'm going to eliminate some of the obvious causes, like Facebook. I'm going to give my children more attention by not having my phone in the room with us. I'm going to start going to Adoration once again. I'm going to even call my doctor and ask for another form of progesterone (hello, 8-day luteal phase) since I can't handle prometrium.

And I'm going to use my best Mrs. Duggar-voice, and not just with the kids. I'm going to try at least once a day to let something go, not tell my husband what he did wrong, or forgot to do. And then maybe I'll build up each week to two, or three things a day. Sometimes I pretend I'm a nun who's good at stuff like that. Is that weird?

And I'm going to blog. I'm fasting from Facebook, but not the internet in general. And if I'm not on there, I'll want to be on here more. But the good thing about that is we only have a desktop, so I can only do it at night when the kids are in bed. Maybe I'll report weekly about how I'm doing, what amazing insight is sure to come to me in Adoration (why was I gone so long? That could be my whole problem right there), and how I'm hopefully becoming less angry.

And if you have any advice, please share. My family will thank you :)

Prayer request

My sister's childhood best friend went into labor due to a ruptured uterus today at 30 weeks. Her son was born weighing 3 lbs 4 oz. We don't have too many details on exactly how her friend and her baby are doing, but she was able to talk to her so she must be relatively okay. My sister specifically requested that I post this prayer request, though, to ask all of you to please pray for this new mother. Her name is Heidi, and the baby is Eric.

O Most Blessed Trinity, I your unworthy creature, thank you for all the gifts and privileges which you have granted to Saint Gerard, especially for those virtues with which you have adorned him on earth and the glory which you impart to him in heaven.

Accomplish your work, O Lord, for the greater glory of the Holy Church.

Glorify him before men and women and through his merits, in union with those of Jesus and Mary, grant me the grace for which I ask for the full recovery of baby Eric and his mother Heidi.

And you, my powerful intercessor St. Gerard, always so ready to help those who have recourse to you, pray also for me.

Prostrate yourself before the throne of Divine Mercy and please do not leave it without being heard.

To you I confide this important and urgent affair.

Graciously take my cause in hand and let me not end this novena without having experienced in some way the effects of your intercession.

Amen.

As you may recall, Clara was born at 30 weeks as well. And while we weren't around for the first few days, which may have been very touch-and-go, I can imagine how tough it must be to watch your tiny baby get all sorts of interventions. I pray that little Eric pulls through as miraculously as Clara has. 

And, while no where near as urgent, if you have a second, please add a little prayer for Clara. She has a terrible diaper rash that is causing her extreme discomfort. It may be an infection, and she has a doctor's appointment tomorrow to find out (the doctor's already seen her once for it and we've tried all over-the-counter remedies we can). But tonight she spiked a fever and I freaked out for a while thinking you add THREE points to an underarm reading. It's actually one, and that makes a big difference. An ear infection she had last week may have returned, I'm not sure. We shall see. I'm just hoping they can give her something to make her bottom more comfortable, poor baby.

So thank you so much for the prayers. This blogging community is well known among my family and friends for powerful prayers, so it means a lot to them that you take the time to add these special intentions to your own. Hopefully I'll let you know how our friend and her new baby are doing in the near future.

Saints for dinner

After all the seriousness of late, I just had to lighten things up with a baby post.

We've begun, rather by accident, inviting different saints to join us for dinner.

One night Clara had brought her St. Maximilian Kolbe doll into her highchair with her, which I promptly took away and placed on the table near her.

When it came time to say grace, we got to the part where we add our special intentions (a time when Clara often yells out people she wants to pray for), she said "Kolbe" or, rather, "kopee." I couldn't believe it! So I turned it into a chance to teach her about asking Kolbe to pray for us.

According to Clara, St. Therese and St. Maximilian Kolbe were sleeping. 

So now either "Kolbe" or St. Therese, Our Lady of Guadalupe, or even Jesus Himself, takes a seat at our table, and we ask them for their intercession during grace.

Clara hugs St. Maximilian after dropping him.

On a side note, Clara has also learned that Kolbe is Luke's middle name, which she has really taken a liking to. If we ask her who Kolbe is, she'll point to either the doll or Luke. And she even sometimes calls Luke, "Lukie Kolbe."

Today, she actually called him "Kolbe Lukie," which was weird since Kolbe was almost his first name.

Luke has taken a special interest in the dolls, too (or "action figures," as Ryan likes to call them). Although today I needed to gently explain to him that we don't bang St. Therese on our glass door.

Hopefully she understands.

I'm ticked

You might have seen this picture, or one like it, going around facebook...

It really ticked me off when I saw it this afternoon, and I've been stewing about it all day. It's such a weak argument (one usually followed by that other stellar argument that someone is a man and has no right making decisions about someone's womb).

So, if the above statement is true, then so is this...

I, for one, am glad and not at all intimidated by the fact that there are laws set up to protect those two precious children of mine. Yes, I decide what they wear each day, where they'll go to school, and what they eat. But I don't get to decide if they deserve to be hit, abused, neglected, or worse. No, the government has already made those decisions for me. I can't beat them. I can't kill them. End of story.

So I'm sorry, but the argument that my va-jay-jay-is-my-business-so-stay-out-of-it doesn't fly with me. Luke wasn't one of my organs. He was a separate, living human being. A boy. A child. He deserved protection then and now. All babies do.

And, yes, I'm preaching to the choir, but I just needed to vent. I now feel a tiny bit better.