The Thermometer Incident of 2014

     I remember the day when my own battle with infertility finally caught up with me and my ability to think rationally. It will go down in history as The Great Thermometer Incident of 2014. Scholars will study, analyze and debate it's delicate nuances, school children will sing spirited songs about it on long bus rides. It is the day when I officially lost my shit.

     Around the two year mark of trying to have a baby I absolutely lost my mind. I cried at the drop of a hat. When I could make it the whole day without crying I would sob through my evening shower. I dreaded getting onto Facebook out of fear of another pregnancy announcement from my friends. Everywhere I looked I saw pregnant bellies. They were on television, in my office at work, across the table while I was eating my lunch. They were everywhere. I was a woman obsessed and I felt completely out of control. It's an uncomfortable sensation to feel so disconnected from your body but that's exactly what happens. Your own body starts to seem like a total stranger. A stranger who is kind of an asshole and doesn't care what you think or want them to do because they are doing their own thing. You start looking for ways to regain some sense of control over the situation, over yourself. So, you start fixating and obsessing on things that feel within your control. These things vary from new vitamins to creams to techniques in the bedroom. Anything that makes you feel like you have some say in how things play out. Some small control over your future. A common fixation that I became obsessed with is charting. It's an easy target because it is a visual representation of your failure as a woman and human being and it's usually in an app or a binder of some kind so it's pretty convenient. Charting is serious business. I've read blogs written by women who can't accept that they are not pregnant because their chart is absolutely perfect on a given month. I found myself feeling jealous of these women who had nice charts even when they didn't result in a pregnancy because mine was always such a cluster-f. I thought it must be some kind of comfort to at least have a pretty chart rather than this Rorschach test that I was carrying around.

     My temps were usually all over the place. I had spikes where there should be none and perfectly straight lines where there should be hills and valleys. If I had too many days with the same temperature that was also a huge problem because that could indicate da, da, daaaaa... A failing battery in my thermometer. The kryptonite of any charter. The dreaded low thermometer battery. Difficult to detect and poison to even the healthiest chart.

     This is when I began a new and exciting fixation, a spin off of the chart fixation... Thermometers. I couldn't get enough of them. It started after a particularly hard to decipher chart. I was using an app at the time and even it couldn't detect when or if I had ovulated because my temps were overly consistent for a few days then would spike or drop for a day before returning back to the previous day's straight line level. This, as with everything else in my life at the time, led to an extensive, obsessive online research bonanza. Blogs, chat rooms, clinical documents. Oh my!!! I devoured them and in the end decided that it was a faulty thermometer. Possibly a low battery but also old, and not a basal body thermometer, the gold standard of thermometers for women trying to conceive.

     This just wouldn't do. This was the problem. This thermometer was the reason that I wasn't holding a crying baby in my arms yet. I already suspected a Luteal phase disorder. I couldn't possibly battle both a Luteal phase defect AND a crappy thermometer. This was madness. So I ran out that night after work to Walgreen’s to get a new thermometer. That defective thermometer would not last one more day in my house. I studied each thermometer in the aisle. I read the front of each package, I read the back of each package. I read the tiny print. You would have thought I was purchasing an actual baby. Finally, I decided on the brand that I wanted, although not a basal body thermometer (which are not usually stocked in regular stores) it was the best that Walgreen’s could offer. I was sure of it. I paid for it and left the store with confidence that NOW we are on the right track.

     I got home, opened the package, sat down to test my new thermometer against my old one and bam! Completely different temperatures. That's it! That was the problem! Mommy hood, here I come! I used my trusty new thermometer the next morning and I was feeling good! It's a new day! I got to work and my first client of the day was a no show so just on a whim I looked up reviews on my new thermometer. And... It's crap. Absolute garbage. Everyone hates it. “Not accurate.” First review. “Not accurate.” Second review. “Least accurate thermometer I've ever owned.” Perfect. Well, that's it. New thermometer is now dead to me. I hate it. I'll never get pregnant with this piece of junk.

     This results in my next few hours being tied up obsessively and compulsively reading thermometer reviews. I don't mean one or two reviews for each. I mean EVERY single review for EVERY single thermometer on Amazon. I mean asking in chat rooms, “which thermometer is the best?!?!” This means every review on Target and Walmart. Screw you Walgreen’s and your shit thermometers. I read it ALL. And then I bought and bought and bought. I bought seven thermometers that day... Seven. Not even counting my old thermometers. I could lose six thermometers and STILL have a new one to use. The government could come and try to take my thermometers but even they couldn't get all of them. I was good to go.

     It just so happened, 3 of them showed up to the house on the same day. I was like a kid on Christmas morning. I was throwing boxes and packing materials everywhere. It was a thermometer frenzy! My poor husband watched me with a mix of pity and fear. “What are you going to do with all of those?” He asked with all the patience he could muster. “I'm going to use them to chart” I said, feeling like I was answering a very silly question. “How many do you need to chart?” he asked quietly.

     “Well,” I said “You can actually temp in your mouth and in your vagina, and I'm thinking that I can also temp in my butt and then compare all three results to get the most accurate chart.” Completely straight face. Totally logical. What? “If I just had one more hole to temp in, I could use all of the top picks at once and really see which one is the most accurate.” Yep. That was the moment. The moment that I realized I had officially lost my mind.

     We stood looking at each other in silence; me because I was in my head trying to figure out how I could make this work, him because he was in his head trying to figure out how to commit me since I wasn't suicidal, just nuts.

     I am happy to say that sanity kicked in before I made a human cactus out of myself, and not a moment too soon, I must add. I decided to just go with my basal body thermometer and call it a day and it is the thermometer that eventually gave me the nod to take my only successful home pregnancy test ever just a few months later.

     I share this moment in time not because it is a time in my life that I am particularly proud of, or because of the lovely visual that I'm sure I gave all of you on this crisp, winter Monday. I share it because I want anyone who is in the midst of their own breakdown to know that you are not alone in your insanity, nor does it mean that you will never be back to the land of the rational. There is never a more justified time to go a little nuts than when it comes to family and especially when it comes to your children. There is absolutely no shame in that. Someday children will tell stories of you and your last stand as a rational person, when all seemed lost and the only thing that made sense were the small victories that you clung to for some whisper of control. But know that someday, you will look back on this time in your life with compassion and possibly even humor for the lengths to which you were willing to go to start your own little family. And you will know that it was all worth it regardless of how many holes it took to get an accurate temperature.

Milk, milk, lemonade

     “Why don't you show me how to freeze your milk, so I can help you with it?” My sweet husband's considerate question made my blood run as cold as the milk in question. Trying to buy myself a few seconds, I cleared my throat. “You want to learn to freeze the milk?” I repeated the question, trying to sound normal but hoping that I had misheard. Cheerfully he replied, “yeah, that way on the nights when you are running around trying to get Archer to fall asleep and getting your other stuff done you won't have to stop what you're doing to freeze your milk.” It sounded rational. Sounded reasonable. Made sense. But the sound of the completely logical words falling out of my mouth made me cringe. “O... Okay.”

     For the most part, I don't consider myself an overly controlling person. I'm demanding of myself, but overall I'm pretty flexible with others. I like things to be done my way, but usually I can adapt pretty well. I believed this idea about myself wholeheartedly, that is until the day I watched my husband try to freeze my breast milk.

     Over the past 7 months, I have perfected a system of freezing 4 to 6 bags of breast milk every evening that I am pretty happy with. I have my own little rituals for how I do everything from how I fill each storage bag and get all of the air bubbles out, to where and how I lay them so that they freeze nice and flat. It isn't by any means the only way, but it's my way and how I like it to be done. I'll admit it, I'm sort of weirdly territorial and protective of my milk. Strange but true.

     I have a system for how I fill each bag. It's not just an immature effort to have things my way, but because I've spilled them before. It's a dark day when it happens, but every so often the top of a bag goes rogue while I'm trying to get a particularly rebellious air bubble out and I end up with an ounce of liquid gold dripping down my kitchen cabinets. When I spill milk, I have to stop and take a deep breath. “I'm not gonna cry, I'm not gonna cry,” I chant quietly as if in prayer, reminding myself that it's not as bad as it feels. I have a system in place for everything having to do with my milk collection and storage. I am picky about the order in which each bag is organized in one of two cases that sit in our freezer. I have a system for which of the two cases each bag goes into. These are not systems that I made on a whim just because I felt like it. They are based on the date on which the milk was produced and making sure that it gets used in the correct order.

     When I get ready to freeze my milk, I grab my cute little cooler that accompanies me to work each and every day and 5 individual storage bags. I gingerly write on each, the date and the number of ounces of milk that each bag will eventually contain, careful to be as neat as possible.  I place the neck of the bottle inside the opening of the bag and with the gusto of a flair bartender in Vegas, I turn the bottle and bag upside down and empty the bottle completely. Then I sit the bag down on the counter and with a graceful swoop push the air bubbles out while locking both long seals across the top of the bag. I repeat this four more times, and then lay each bag on top of my case, a thin plastic divider between each so that they can be easily separated after they are frozen for storage inside of the case. Sounds simple enough and to be honest, at this point I'm a pro at it. I then pack up my pumping supplies so they will be ready for the next day. All I have to do in the morning is grab my cold pack and go.

     Another person's system wouldn't be wrong necessarily, but it would be different and therefore well, yeah, wrong. Wrong is actually exactly what it would be. But I didn't want to discourage Jim. It is wonderful that he wants to be so helpful and I know that to retain my sanity, I have to let people help. I have to be able to let go of the control that I am clinging to tightly with both hands and accept that their system might be okay too.

     Overall my husband is an enormous help to me. Since having Archer and returning to work full time, he has taken over most of the household tasks. I have only cooked a handful of meals since giving birth and have not done one single load of laundry. And God love him, he never complains. He is always ready to take on any additional task to lighten my load and give me more time with Archer. For the most part, I am happy to let him help. I like to focus on being a mommy as much as humanly possible, so anything that he offers to take on, I am generally happy to hand over. But this is my milk and it is different than laundry. My body goes to great lengths to create a unique blend of perfectly balanced vitamins, proteins, amino acids, minerals and enzymes formulated to respond to my babies exact needs. Not something that I care to see spoiled or laying helplessly across my kitchen counter. Jim knows this and has great respect for what I go through to provide milk for Archer while I'm at work. He also knows me well enough to know that a hot button with me is when he comes into a situation that I have been working on for any length of time and tries to correct or improve upon my system. Even if his ideas are good, it isn't the time or the place. So he knew me well enough to say, “You tell me exactly how you like them done and I'll do that. I promise.” His words offered me some small comfort, so I nodded my head in agreement.

     That night after dinner we went into the kitchen together, Archer on my hip and for the first time ever I directed and supervised the freezing of my milk. All he had done was remove the tiny bottles from the cooler and already I was in a panic. “Okay,” I said, “first you need to get the bags out of the drawer and fill them out with the date and number of ounces.”

     Immediately, I heard, “oops.” “What?” I asked, my heart sinking. “I put the ounces on the date line. Does that matter?” he asked.  And no, it didn't matter. It really didn't. But I felt my body involuntarily begin to sweat regardless. I mentally tried to talk myself into thinking rationally. “It's no big deal,” I reminded myself. “That won't make any difference.” “That won't matter” I said through clinched teeth.

     Then began the sacred dance of filling the bags. My husband, who is generally very smooth and coordinated, all of the sudden looked like Archer when he was just learning to use his arms. It seemed like he lacked adequate control of his limbs. I glanced at Archer and he have me a side glance like, “are you seeing this?” Yeah kid, I'm seeing it. Every time he flipped a bottle over I felt my butt hole pucker up like it had just eaten a lemon wedge.

     He then began attempting to seal each bag without trapping any air bubbles inside. I could tell that he was really trying, but like anyone who is trying too hard and being watched too closely, his movements appeared unnatural and wonky. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the bags. He would seal one, and then look at me for my approval. “There are still bubbles in there” I would say, trying to sound supportive rather than terrified at the prospect of opening the bag again. Unsteadily, he would try again. I knew it was me. I was making him nervous by watching so closely but I just couldn't look away. I felt like my eyes could hold the milk in the bag if gravity let go. I was willing the air bubbles out of the bag with my eyes. " For the love of God, please get that air bubble out of there," I prayed silently.  And after what felt like hours but was actually only minutes, the air bubbles were finally gone and my milk was safely tucked into each sealed bag.

     Finally, they were ready to be placed in their allotted positions in our freezer. The whole process was unfamiliar to Jim and resulted in him again appearing alarmingly uncoordinated. Together, Archer and I watched intently, a look of uncertainty in both of our eyes as he balanced the stack of wobbling liquid and carried it over to the freezer. Following my direction exactly, he set each little bag in it's place and with a sigh of relief shut the freezer door.

     I laughed nervously and thanked him profusely for wanting to learn and be involved in the whole process. I let him know how much I appreciated all that he does for our little family and together we both agreed that the lesson had been exceedingly stressful for all three of us and agreed that moving forward he would only freeze the milk if it was an absolute emergency.

     Sometimes, needing control can be a bad thing. It robs you of the opportunity to accept help when you need it most.  But other times, like when you have manufactured a product within your own body that cannot be duplicated by all of the science and technology on Earth and need to store it safety, it can be exactly what you need to feel like you have some grasp on the often crazy and uncertain world around you.

Mama

     This weekend my son said his first word. It is a day that I have been looking forward to with bittersweet anticipation since the day he was born. Sweet because it is such a huge, important milestone in his life. As a therapist, I value this achievement for him more than any other. I know how empowering it is for a child to gain the ability to vocalize their internal feelings, wants and objections for others to be able to hear and understand. Bitter because I was sure that I was going to miss that first beautiful sound. As a working mom, so much of my time is spent away that I feared that I would miss this special achievement. I also wondered what his first word would be... I assumed that because I am away so much, my presence might not even occupy much of his thoughts. He doesn't always expect me to be there because well, I am not always there. And this breaks my heart. It is just one of the million things that fill my mother's guilt jar, already filled to the brim only 7 short months into my parenting adventure.

     I also wonder because, like all moms I think, I rarely feel like I have my shit even remotely together. I see my own flaws so clearly. My heart is in the right place. That's for sure. I want more than anything to be a good mom. I try my absolute hardest, but God do I struggle. I think that is a pretty common part of the mommy experience, however. Relentless self doubt. I constantly feel like me and my little buddy are holding on by a thread.

      A solid 75 percent of the time when I park my car I forget where it is. I leave the store, rain or shine, shopping bags, diaper bag and stroller all jumbled around me like some kind of f-ed up tornado and wander around the parking lot pushing desperately on my little key fob trying to figure out where my car is parked. I look down at the sweet little face gazing up at me and I think, “poor kid, I'm his adult in this crazy, scary world and I am a freaking moron.” The worst part is, I'm really trying. There are a lot of parents out there who really don't try. Either they don't care that much or they struggle with drug problems or they were never raised properly so they never really had good parenting role models to begin with... A lot of reasons. But this is me. A 34 year old very educated woman who wanted to get pregnant forever, who is really trying her absolute best. It's scary.

     I feel like I am constantly screwing up. I'm always learning, but unfortunately it is at Archer's expense. Thank God he is a pretty resilient kid thus far. I'm either heating up his homemade organic food in the microwave housed in a plastic cup, or using thawed milk to make the food, then refreezing it. Over a month into making him food and I'm just learning that all of that is wrong.

     I still struggle to breastfeed with any dignity and have flashed more family, friends and waitresses at lunch than I'm proud to admit. I know how to use my stroller like I know how to use my phone, meaning only the parts that I have had to learn and use to get by. It's all learning on the fly for me and I don't retain information that well when I have a screaming infant in my ear during the lesson so I tend to still struggle with the mechanics of the whole thing. I see other mothers gracefully leaping in and out of their cars with ease as I'm still fumbling trying to get my stroller to fold up and I wonder, do they practice at home first? Do they go on test runs without the baby at some point? What the hell am I missing?

     Archer fights me at nap time and I see so much of myself in him at these moments. He is so afraid he is going to miss something and I completely get it. I feel guilty though when I've been away at work all day and he is so cranky and tired when I get home and I just want to get him to sleep. I've missed him all day, how can I want him to sleep now that I'm here? But I'm exhausted and so is he and even though I know it is in both of our best interests that he sleep, I still feel awful. At the end of a day at home I am physically exhausted and I feel badly about how much I look forward to my evening shower for a minute to myself. At the end of my work day I am mentally exhausted and feel badly about how much I look forward to my evening shower for a minute to myself. I can't win.

 

     This is a wonderful time in history to be a mom.  There is a huge community of mothers out there online to turn to for information and support.  This is also a horrible time in history to be a mom.  There is a huge community of mothers out there online to show you how much better they are at mommying than you are.  It's impossible to not compare yourself to the mother whose kid always looks like they stepped out of a catalogue while your's just shot gravity defying, liquid, projectile poop out of his butt up the entire back of his shirt.  Or the mom who has full hair and make-up done on a Saturday.  I don't know anything about that life.  All I know is, my boobs are leaking down my shirt and I'm pretty sure there is poop on my elbow.  That's my world. 

     I have felt like a walking circus since hour one of day one of parenting. Every time I took Archer's diaper off for the first 3 months of his life, he peed on me. Every time. If he was at the doctors office and they took his diaper off three times, then I got peed on three times. It didn't even matter where I stood in the room, that stream always found me. My child hated tummy time so I wouldn't force him to lay there crying. Everything I read said that he needed it, but I just couldn't do it to him. Rather than force him, I just played with him sitting up so his neck could get strong that way. But the entire time I beat myself up for my wishy washy parenting. He and I often eat together which means that I drop crumbs on him while breastfeeding. Most of his pajamas have spots on them not from him, but from whatever I was eating during his most recent meal. I want to read to him every night but usually I'm just too tired so the poor kid only gets books on the weekend. I would love to say that he gets to go to fancy places when I'm off work but those days are generally for running my errands so our exciting outings are usually to Target or the post office.

     We go to swimming classes every weekend because I want him to get used to the water but I don't force him to blow bubbles because he hates it. I feel like a bad mom for not pushing him, but I would feel worse if I made him hate the water so I don't. I also won't force him to sleep in a crib or go to bed when I'm still up because he prefers to go to bed with me. I have been told many times by many people that this is a bad parenting choice and maybe those people are right. But I hate that the majority of our time together during the week is in the evening while he is sleeping so I cherish our experience of co sleeping. It is time for me to snuggle him and feel close to him again after the long day away. It may not be award winning parenting, but I would hate having to dust a trophy anyway.

     I never feel like I know what I'm doing. I always feel like I am learning on the job, figuring it out as I go along. I imagine that is what everyone is doing, but it looks more elegant and less chaotic when it's someone else, anyone else. I feel like a failure when his little butt is red from diaper rash. I feel neglectful any time he topples over while playing and I wasn't watching close enough to catch him. I feel like I need to look up and ask people everything. I always have a million questions and those answers usually just lead to more questions. Jim and I gave up on sanitizing everything about a month in. We have three cats and I have a 3 year old nephew. We lost the war on germs before it even began.

     I feel badly when I catch myself counting the months to my year goal when I'll be able to stop breastfeeding. I love it, but I will also love getting my boobs back and finally being able to just keep them in my shirt for a change. I worry that his nighttime mommy isn't as fun as his daytime mommy aka, my mother who babysits him while I'm at work. I try so hard to be the mother that he deserves and so many days I'm left feeling like I fell short.

     These worries swirl around the folds of my subconscious constantly, always ready to knock me down a few pegs just as I feel like I'm getting the hang of things. But not this weekend. This weekend, I sat with my little man on my lap and heard his sweet little voice above everyone else in the room. “Ma-ma-ma-ma.” “Ma-ma.” “Mama.” “Mama.” If my heart could sing it would have sung an opera and in that moment I allowed the relentless self doubt and the negative internal dialogue that we mommy's carry around with us everyday next to the extra diapers and wipes fall silent. What they had to say wasn't important to me anymore. What my son had to say, was.

Cats in the Cradle

     Maximus Caticus, Ruben James and Maeby Olivia. My cats. Yep, before I was obsessed with being a mommy, I was obsessed with cats. A bona fide crazy cat lady. I was always a cat lady. I always liked them, but over the time that I was trying to conceive, I absolutely went crazy. For the years that I desperately wanted a baby, they were my babies.

      Max is a southern boy from New Orleans. He and his brother had been abandoned in a house there before the local animal shelter found them and Jim eventually adopted him. When he moved back to Pennsylvania, Max came along.

     Ruben, named for the corned beef sandwich that my friend who found him, tiny and sickly in the field behind the building where he worked gave him to eat as a first meal. He is a sweet and timid soul, who loves to sleep on whatever high perch he can find around our house.

     When we adopted Maeby, we thought she was a boy. We had intended to adopt a boy since we had two other boys and didn't know what throwing a girl into the mix would do. We got her home, named her Gob (Arrested Development reference, of course) and fell in love. Later that evening, I happened to look at her medical records and noticed one word. Spayed. I thought, “that's weird,” and flipped my new little kitten over to find that she had in fact been spayed. With that she got a new name, Maeby, keeping with our previous Arrested Development theme and also as a play on words... Maybe she was a boy or maybe she was a girl. Our little Maeby completed our family for the time being.

     I loved my cats. I loved my cats more than I like most people. In the early days it was an appropriate, completely sane love, but as the years went on and as Jim and I tried unsuccessfully to start a human family, I'll be the first to admit that that love became well, a little bit crazy.

     At first it was just a nice distraction. It felt good to dote on them. It was funny and a bit of an inside joke with family and friends. I wore my crazy cat lady title with pride. Our cats didn't want for anything. We had three cat trees, a cat forest if you will in our living and dining rooms. They had the best of everything.

     I dressed my cats. Hats, bow ties, scarves, many, many sweaters, Halloween costumes, nothing fancy... Always occasion appropriate. God love them, there were great sports. I developed a technique. I can dress a cat in under 30 seconds. The trick is working with them not against them. All three would cuddle at night in bed with us, every single night. Ruben would spoon Jim, Maeby would sleep on my head and Max occupied the area at the foot of the bed.

     We spoiled them, but they were good to us too. For Mother's Day they would get me gifts and flowers and for Father's Day they would get Jim candy and cards. For Christmas we would go all out. I have cat ornaments all over my tree. I even bought special ornaments that I thought they would like to play with and hung them low on the tree so they could reach and enjoy them. Obviously, the boys had Christmas sweaters and Maeby had a fancy Christmas dress.

     I hung beautiful Christmas stockings for them and filled them to the brim with treats, toys and accessories. We opened their stockings before we moved on to any other gifts on Christmas morning. Their big gifts, of course were under the tree.  It sounds very silly now, but at the time it truly warmed my heart to see them with their presents. It filled a tiny part of the huge hole that was developing in my heart. The temporary reprieve felt good.

     It was fun. It was all fun. The jokes with people were fun. The jokes Jim and I would make felt good. It felt like a release. While I longed for a baby it felt nice to be able to do for them. It was a place for some of that lost love to go.

     One thing about the holidays that I have always loved were the Christmas cards. I love getting them and I love sending them. I always make personalized Christmas cards. I would send funny caricatures of Jim and I and the cats, or a pretty picture of our decorated tree and I always decorate my home with the ones that I get back. I tie them to a pretty ribbon and hang them like garland above one of our doorways between the dining room and the living room.

     It was our second Christmas in a row of TTC, and I sat down with my stack of Christmas cards to assemble them on my sparkling gold ribbon. Like every year, I kept one of our own to hang with the others. With cheer in my heart I picked up the first card in my stack, a beautiful picture of my nephew in a reindeer hat. I smiled. Just looking at that baby made my heart want to explode with joy. I secured it in it's place on the garland, and picked up the next. A card from a friend who had just had her second baby. Her children looked out from the card like little angels. Big blue eyes, platinum blonde hair and porcelain skin. They looked like dolls, not even real. Absolutely beautiful babies. The next card was another friend, her baby was about 18 months old at the time. He was wearing a Santa hat and smiling sweetly at the camera, a stocking in his chubby little hand. Babies in elf hats, in cozy baskets filled with blankets, older kids posed hugging each other. Happy families. Card after card after card. I saw the babies who I had expected my own child to grow up with now sitting up on their own, getting ready to crawl right out of the card. The children who had been announced right when I had started trying were already walking.  Everyone was growing and moving forward. Everyone, it felt, except for me.

     I then came to my own card in the stack. It was a card that had taken me a long time to make. The picture had been difficult to get. My three cats, dressed in Christmas sweaters next to the tree. It had taken me an hour to get them to sit in the frame together. I'm not sure if you have ever tried to get three cats in sweaters to pose together in front of a specific backdrop before but I'll tell you the short version. It's a shit show. I had been excited when I finally snapped the perfect photo. It was going to be so cute. To be honest, it was cute. But sitting there, surrounded by the photos of babies and kids and “real” families, it didn't feel cute. It didn't feel funny. It felt pathetic. I felt embarrassed. I had an irrational urge to run to every house that I had sent my cards to and steal them out of the mailboxes before anyone could see them.  I felt sorry for myself. I sat and cried in my pile of Christmas card garland.

     This year, I debated putting Archer on our Christmas card. In fact, I debate a lot of the posts that I put on Facebook. I never want to make anyone feel like I felt for all of those years. I hate to think that my happy moments could be causing pain for someone else. But as with Facebook, I made a conscious decision to enjoy these years to the fullest. I feel like I've earned them. These are the experiences that I grieved when I felt that I would never get to enjoy a baby of my own. So I dressed up my little man in an elf hat and shorts, scattered a few fake snowballs around him and lived out one of the countless dreams that I had carried in my head and in my heart for so long.

     Since having Archer my cats have reverted back to pets. Sometimes I think they miss the attention and the old sleeping arrangement, but for the most part I think they enjoy the peace and are thrilled to have been clothing free for the past year or so. Now, they spend their days lounging on the couch, the single remaining cat tree and getting kicked off of Archer's pack n play. Now little Archer is the boss and we are all just happy to live in his kingdom.

Out of the mouths of babe's parents

    
     “Do I have poop on me somewhere? I smell poop and it's not him. Smell me. Do I have poop smeared somewhere?” 

     It's funny how conversations change over the years in a relationship. I have a pretty good memory for conversations due to my work. I can remember events in people's lives usually better than I can remember their names. I don't always remember exact quotes, but I'm pretty good with topics. Where I can quote is if the subject matter irritated me. In those conversations I'm like a court reporter. I'm like Rain man. On point. I can tell you the shirt Jim was wearing during the conversation.

     I can remember the first day I was introduced to Jim. I don't remember what was said exactly, but I know that it took place behind the bar at the Titlow when a coworker who was training with Jim formally introduced us. I had seen him around before, but hadn't known his name or anything. I don't remember what was said, but I remember thinking he was cute, and getting the idea that the feeling was mutual. Not being vain, just saying. Men give it all away up front... with their eyes.

     From there, our first conversations were of the getting to know you variety. We talked about our families, the years that he had lived in New Orleans, my school, our plans for the future. The usual stuff. Over the next few months we opened up more about our feelings for each other and what we each expected from a serious relationship. Some of these conversations were more difficult than others. Some were downright heated depending on the topic, but important conversations are rarely without some growing pains. I attribute our strong, honest relationship now to the fact that we didn't shy away from these painful topics in the beginning. I can truly say that I know where Jim stands on every subject and I believe he can say the same about me.  It was worth the years of arguing in public and parking lots I guess.

     Slowly, our conversations evolved to discussions of moving in together, household issues and eventually marriage. Getting married conversations tend to be stressful. They usually revolve around money or family, both of which can be hot button issues at times. But we made it through and after the wedding things calmed down again. We took time to just enjoy each other and our time together. We talked about work, family and friends, travel and our plans for the future. Normal. Very normal and sane. Eventually, the time was right and we began discussing expanding our little circle to include a family of our own. These early conversations on the subject were magical and very bonding. We were ready, appropriately terrified at the prospect, but excited beyond belief. It was time.

      When you're trying to conceive, your conversations change again. They start out in the early days being an intoxicating mix of excitement and nervous energy. It's a huge life decision, a big, big change and you know it. Your life will never again be the same. Say goodbye to those afternoon naps on the couch on weekends and meeting for a drink on your way home from work just because you both feel like it on a whim. When we decided to have kids, I was 30 and Jim was 35. We were pretty happy with our lives and very set in our ways. A large portion of our early TTC conversations revolved around this fact. But we knew that there was something better waiting for us. We discussed if we want a boy or a girl, nursery ideas, what season/holiday I would be due around if I got pregnant that month. Fun topics. Very positive ideas of the future. We would discuss who was currently announcing pregnancies, and get excited thinking that we would be pregnant at the same time as them. We joked about being at student teacher days and school plays with them. Our conversations were fun and flirty and we were both just ready for the next chapter of our lives to be written.

     As month after month ticked by without any good news, the topics and tone of conversations changed. They became significantly less sane and a million times less fun. The excitement died down along with our positivity and we found ourselves in a weird space where our conversations became surprisingly medical in nature. It became all signs and symptoms, possible tests and treatments. Is something wrong? What could be wrong? What does my chart look like this month? How was my temperature today? I think I need another new thermometer. Everyone on Amazon loves this progesterone cream. The people who announced their pregnancies when we started trying were now announcing the births of those children, and eventually began announcing subsequent pregnancies. We stopped getting excited when we talked about who was the latest to announce that they were pregnant. I personally remember a phase where the majority of my sentences started out with the phrase “I read on a TTC blog today...” It becomes not only the most important topic, but the only topic. Well, not the only...

     The topic of sex comes up a lot. Having it, not having it, need to have it but really don't want to... Nothing leads to a more lively conversation than getting up every single day of your life, even weekends and holidays at 6:30am just to take your temperature and chart it in an app than getting to the one day a month that it is imperative that you do the deed to be told, “I just ate a big meal, can it wait until tomorrow?” Those are fun conversations for everyone. It includes the f word but not in the fun, sexy way that you are picturing.

     And then there are the days when there are no more words. At the saddest point in my life, when I felt so low that I couldn't imagine the day that a genuine smile would ever cross my lips again, my biggest fear was that Jim would walk into the crowded room where I was standing on the brink of falling apart. I knew that if he looked into my eyes, no words would be needed for him to know my pain, and that would make it impossible for me to hide it anymore. Those are the conversations that contain no words, but speak the loudest.

     The day that I found out that I was, finally pregnant was an amazing conversation day. I had planned for literally years a very special way to finally tell Jim when I was expecting. But after waiting so long and the absolute shock that I was feeling to be looking at long last at 2 pink lines, I completely forgot my plan and just climbed back into bed and whispered it in his ear. That was a beautiful conversation.

     For us, after 30 months of TTC conversations, pregnancy conversations normalized a bit. It consisted of a more serious discussion of names, during which Archer was scratched off of my list countless times by Jim. What can I say, I'm decent at the art of persuasion. We discussed gender expectations, tests that I was having and the actual nuts and bolts of nursery plans. We would discuss the baby kicking, and how my due date was coming up, what was labor and delivery going to be like, was he going to, you know, look. What if I go into labor at work? What if he is at work? Our conversations were back to being fun and exciting. It felt good to be us again after so long.

     Labor and delivery came and went and with it our couples conversations. We still talk obviously, all of the time. But our topics now are primarily Archer related. A remarkable number of our conversations focus on bodily fluids. A remarkable number. Primarily poop, but also pee, vomit, breast milk, boogers, earwax and more poop. Poop comes up a lot. In detail and in a number of forms. There is the old, “Is there poop on me?” conversation, which can also be altered to the “is there poop on you?” conversation when necessary. There is discussion of the amount of poop, the location of poop on clothing, the color of poop, the consistency of poop, the most recent poop... It really is an endless subject in it's versatility.

     There is the “does it sound like he has boogies?” conversation that generally follows with the “I got the biggest boogie out of his nose yesterday,” bragging chaser. There is the “my top producing boob has changed for some reason,” conversation. I like to throw this one out over dinner because, you know, it's Archer's food so that makes the topic seem table appropriate. In the days and weeks after delivery I was a big fan of the “how does my c-section scar look?” conversation. This one usually comes accompanied with a flashlight, or my personal favorite, a headlamp and an intrusive inspection of the area in question. Always fun in the weeks after a human was forcibly pulled from your body. Jim seems to like the old, “you forgot to put your boob away,” conversation. That one began about a week into breastfeeding when I just didn't care anymore if my boob was out. And of course, the number one most talked about topic of conversation in our post baby household... “How did he get so handsome?” and the millions of variations of this observation that we find ourselves pondering on a daily basis. That is by far my favorite conversation that we currently have.

     Over the years, our conversations have evolved from silly and flirty, to real substance, life and death and back again. It is one of the parts of marriage that I love the most. You are not alone in your experiences. There is someone else there next to you in the trenches. We may not be discussing great literary works or solving the world's problems, but our conversations are an accurate and beautiful gauge of where we are in our lives together. It just so happens that at this moment, there is a lot of joy... and poop.

And the day came, when she sprouted a bean...

 

     Today my baby boy turns seven months old. This past year has gone by in the blink of an eye and I can honestly say it is the happiest that I have ever been. Archer has started trying solid foods... Avocados, bananas and sweet potatoes all mixed with breast milk and looks like such a big boy sitting up in his high chair at dinnertime. My little love still wakes up around 4 times per night to eat and for snuggles, but we co-sleep so I don't mind it one bit. I think a lot of the patience that I feel with some of the less convenient parts of parenting is a healthy mix of sleep deprivation and overwhelming gratitude. I really never thought that I would get to be here. A real life mommy in the flesh.

     Because I had to try for so long to get pregnant, I can tell you anything you want to know about reproduction. Progesterone? Estrogen? Luteal phase? I could teach a class. It's the proverbial those who can, do; those who can't, teach scenario. I don't mean to brag. All I'm saying is I know my way around a fallopian tube.

     When you have tried to get pregnant for a long time without success, the idea of actually being pregnant becomes very abstract. You want it, but you can't really picture it anymore. It's like winning the lottery. You buy your ticket, you would love to win, you hope that you'll win, but you certainly don't live your life in anticipation of it. You don't spend a million dollars because you know you are going to win enough to cover it eventually. It is more of just an idea that is out there on the periphery of your actual plans, outside of your real life. Unfortunately, because I stopped really expecting to be able to get pregnant, I learned very little about being pregnant in anticipation of the event. I was too obsessed with just getting there. Whatever happened after, if it ever even happened, I was just gonna wing it.

     When I finally did see that big fat positive on a pregnancy test I was obviously overjoyed. I walked around on a cloud for a while. Well, for a day. As I began to read about early pregnancy and the countless things that can go wrong, my cloud promptly drifted back to Earth with a thud. I became terrified that it could be a blighted ovum, something that I was not even aware was a thing until I came across it by accident looking for something else. Basically, it is when you get a gestational sac that contains a yolk sac, but no embryo.  As soon as I saw that this was a possibility, I was certain that I had one. I became convinced that I was doomed to go to my first ultrasound and be told that there was nothing actually there.

     You see, when you struggle to get pregnant, that beautiful pink line is only part of the battle. The actual pregnancy becomes terrifying because you are finally so close. I couldn't imagine what I would do if that was taken away from me. I really didn't think I would be able to handle it. I am in awe of women who have lost children either during pregnancy or after they have been born and have held them in their arms. I counsel many of these women and their strength absolutely humbles me. They are a true testament to the human spirit and I feel honored to know each and every one of them.

     In anticipation of bad news, I began to reel myself and my excitement back. I wouldn't allow myself to plan for the nursery or think of baby names. I wasn't going to let myself look forward to a future that may never come. I felt that mentally, I needed to be ready for a major letdown.

     The day of my first appointment with my doctor I felt the kind of butterflies that you feel before a trip to the dentist to have a cavity filled. Definitely not excitement. I just wanted to get it over with. I spoke to my husband on the phone on my way to the office. He knew how I was feeling, although I don't think he was aware of how sure I was that would be getting bad news. He was nervous too. I went into the office and was weighed, peed in a cup, which I must say after years of practice peeing on small, plastic strips I am an absolute champ at. I could do it in the dark.  No messes here. Walking back to the exam room I passed pregnant women and nurses in the hall. I wondered how they handle bad news. Would a few nurses come back at once or would the doctor come in to give me the news? Do they walk you out to your car or just tell you in the room and leave you to yourself after? Would they ask me to call my husband to come get me or does it depend on how distraught I am? I played through every scenario that I could imagine.

     As is the case for most gynecological appointments, they had me take my pants off and sit on a “bed” that is really just a glorified, padded table for the next 45 minutes. Just me, my naked butt on cold plastic and my thoughts. I thought about how much I wished that I was pregnant. I thought about how I would react if I wasn't. I thought about wanting to call out into the hall and find out if they forgot about me but I was afraid that as soon as I stood up and had my bare ass exposed in my stupid paper gown that someone was going to walk in. I sat and sat and sat and thought and thought and thought.

     Finally, the nurse practitioner came in. She was very nice and I immediately felt comfort in her demeanor. I thought that she would probably be very good at giving bad news gently. Right away I told her of my concerns. I told her how long my husband and I had been trying and how fearful I was that there was nothing actually there. Her response was perfect. She didn't blow off my concerns, or flippantly say that she knew it was going to be fine. She listened, she made eye contact, nodded in understanding and simply said, “well, let's take a look then.”

     My first surprise of the day was that instead of pulling up a little scanner looking thing like I had seen on television, she pulled up a huge, long wand. My first thought was that “I hope she is just moving that out of the way.” But no, no she wasn't just moving it. Apparently, that early into a pregnancy this is what is necessary to see inside the womb. So, I learned something new there...

     I held my breath, waiting for her to begin the inevitable, uncomfortable task of looking for something that wasn't there. “That is your yolk sac,” she began. “And there is your baby. And it looks perfect.” She smiled down at me and I felt my entire body get warm. As her words sunk in, I allowed myself to look up at the moving black and gray screen. Through tears my eyes searched for what she was talking about. I asked her to point out to me again which shape on the screen was my baby. At the end of her slim finger, was a small little blip on the screen, shaped like a kidney bean. It was the most beautiful sight that I had ever seen.

     I practically skipped out of the office that day and called Jim immediately to share with him the good news. Finally we could get excited. I downloaded an app for my phone that would walk me through my pregnancy. It asked me to give our little one a name or a nickname. So I went with “little bean” since that is what he looked like. We called him that up until we chose an actual name, but to this day I find myself still referring to him as “Bean” on occasion.

     I would like to tell you that my worries stopped with that ultrasound, but that would not be accurate. I think that when you struggle with infertility, you can't help but wait for the disappointment of a miscarriage or other issue. It all just seems too good to be true. I walked on air again for the first few weeks after that appointment, then I began to fixate on fears of a miscarriage until I was past the 12 week mark, then came the fears of down syndrome. After that test came back clear I became fixated on a cleft lip until I learned that they could detect those from an ultrasound and he didn't have one. I worried about heart defects, I worried that he would be born with a weird birthmark of some kind, or an issue during delivery... The fears were never ending. The good news is that I learned to not let these worries get in the way of my excitement or enjoyment in the moment. This is a skill that is coming in handy now that my lovie is outside of the protection of my belly.

     Now that my little guy is here I worry about SIDS, accidents and then illness. I worry that as he gets older there will be kidnappers, rapists and bullies, and then car accidents when he starts driving, and drugs when he is a teenager. I worry about him finding love and having a happy marriage. I worry about him finding a career that he loves. I worry about neglect in his nursing home when he is an old man... The worries never do end. But when I feel fearful now I just hug my little bean even tighter and focus on how grateful I am that I have him to worry about.

And now... The amazing, the incredible... Post baby body!

     “Your belly is still real big.” I look down at my client's little face smiling up at me sweetly while her sharp little index finger pokes at my post baby belly. “Are you sure there isn't another baby still in there?” I field these questions from her biweekly. It lost it's charm pretty quickly.

     She's not the only one to ask, however. I have been asked quite a few times since having my sweet little bundle of joy if I am expecting another. I'm not sure why people still ask this question of anyone. I don't ever ask a woman if she is pregnant. I don't care how obviously pregnant she may appear. You just never really know and I would be mortified if I asked and the answer was “no,” or a swift slap to the face (which really should be the socially acceptable answer to that question.) A woman could be wearing a baby on board t-shirt while carrying a box of baby clothes and I won't ask. No way. Yet, these people still pepper our community, out there asking you the questions that you wish you didn't have to answer.

     Over the years I have had people tell me their labor and delivery stories many, many times. Don't worry, mine's coming. Everyone loves a good labor and delivery story. A few close friends and family told me about what your body is like in the hours and days after giving birth. That post is coming as well... Maybe I'll wait for Halloween for that one. It is very, very scary.

     But I have heard very little from other women about what your body is like in the months post baby and the things that I have heard are largely negative. We allow changes to our bodies during pregnancy. We recognize that these changes are necessary to provide an environment conducive to growing a healthy, happy little one so we indulge in the extra calories and the rest and relaxation that we know we need. Yet the second that our babies are outside of our bodies the pressure is on. We expect ourselves to snap back into bikini shape immediately following delivery. Unfortunately, the media coverage of celebrity moms doesn't help. I hate to point fingers so I won't, but we are all side glancing at you Heidi Klum...

     Personally, a lot has changed south of my head over the past year and a half. Ladies and gentleman!  Step right up and get your ticket to view the 8^th wonder of the world! Watch carefully and you will see her pull a living human being from her very own belly! If you look closely you can still see the scar! Trust me folks, you won't want to miss this!

     My boobs are now dramatically, comically different sizes, especially if full of milk. I still have a dark brown line that runs from my belly button as far as the eye can see so to speak, that I'm not sure will ever go away. If I pull up my gut I can see the long, pink smiley face scar of my cesarean section incision. I have to use my hands to hold my gut up because I can no longer suck it in on my own. I am also unsure if that very useful skill will ever return. I had a pretty good run, thirty-four years but I think it's safe to say the streak is now over. And I am surprisingly okay with that.

     I was at my skinniest for our wedding and honeymoon. I kept my daily caloric intake around 1200 and alternated yoga and the treadmill every single day for the year leading up to my nuptials. I look back at pictures and it was pretty sweet. While on my honeymoon, a cruise of course Jim and I went on an excursion that included an obstacle course in a tropical forest. The course required us to climb huge, tall trees and set up our own safety equipment for zip lines, rope bridges and wooden planks placed end to end suspended by wire high above the trees. I was terrified, but my father in me would not forfeit the money we had already paid, so I sucked it up and completed all 18 obstacles. There were many times when I thought, mid task that I would have to quit, but I pushed myself physically in a way that I never had before and I completed every one. Finishing that course, I felt something that I had never felt before. A real pride in my body. Not what it looked like, but what it could do. What it could accomplish when pushed. It's strength. It felt amazing. I had never been so proud of myself.

     And then came the infertility. As someone who had always been pretty healthy and who had felt like I could count on my body to do what it was supposed to do, this felt very unexpected and foreign. All of the sudden I couldn't count on my own body. This body that I had trusted for all of these years had betrayed me. I began to feel very distant from myself. I felt sick even though I wasn't. There was something wrong with my body that had nothing to do with the lack of a proper thigh gap or boobs that were too saggy. I could no longer count on my own body. It was no longer my friend. It was my enemy. A project for me to fix. An obstacle for me to overcome. It was broken. I felt broken. All of the sudden my confidence in this body was diminished to nothing.

     Then I finally saw my big fat positive on a home pregnancy test and I had my first inklings that maybe I wasn't broken after all. But it took me a very long time to start to trust my body and see it as my friend again. I embraced the physical changes that I was seeing. I remember one day while very pregnant I was looking through a bathing suit catalog. “I guess I'll never look like this again” I remarked to Jim. The look in his eyes made me laugh. “Well, I didn't look like this before I got pregnant, so I guess there is really no chance of it after.” Over the months that I was pregnant, I very slowly started to rebuild that trust in my body again. As month after month ticked off and my little bean was still growing, I grew more and more comfortable with letting my body do what it was built to do. Slowly I stopped second guessing it all of the time. I stopped looking for warning signs that it was again failing. Then the day came when my son was born. The experience of laboring and having a child, while far from perfect demonstrated to me that this body could in fact, do amazing things. Through breastfeeding I have continued to watch my body change and adapt as it provides for my little one everything that he needs to not only survive but also thrive in this world outside of the protection of my womb. I built a stronger friendship, a camaraderie with my body.

 

     Immediately after having a baby, your body doesn't really feel like it belongs to you.  At least mine didn't.  It all seemed so strange and unreal.  Everything is swollen and crazy and I just felt like I was in someone else's body for the longest time.  All of the sudden my friend was behaving oddly and misbehaving again.  Again I began to feel like my body wasn't my own. 

     At 6 months post baby, in an effort to get Archer used to water and decrease the drowning risk as he gets older I enrolled him in a mommy and me swimming class. This meant that I would need to stuff my post baby body into a swimsuit and parade around a public pool. As I stood in the dressing room of Target, my sweet baby boy sleeping peacefully in the stroller next to me, I took a good, long look at my new shape, on display in 360 degree splendor. I saw materially more padding than before with significantly less control over where and how it now hangs, along with boob B crying out for a bigger cup while boob A seemed satisfied right where it was. I noticed my scar, more purple than pink under the store's harsh lighting and I felt a small smile creep across my mouth. I was surprised by the feeling that I got. This body is amazing.

     This body brought an entirely new life to this Earth, housing, protecting, growing and nourishing it, providing absolutely everything that this new little life needed to survive. This body continues to provide my son's only nutrition for the past seven months, the entirety of his life on this planet. The sheer chemical reactions that had to happen for all of this to occur are mind blowing. We are a universe unto ourselves. I really don't care if it has extra rolls, or odd discolorations that didn't used to be there. I don't care if the size or shape of things are different now. This body has done and is doing absolutely amazing things and while I want to be healthy and all of that, to stand here and fixate on purely cosmetic imperfections feels silly and disrespectful in the face of what this body has accomplished. After so long trying, this body gave me a wonderful little person who I love more than life itself. I gaze with respect at the scar of my cesarean section, that reminds me every time that I see it of where my baby boy first entered this world.

     My body is perfect. Not by societal standards by far, but in my own eyes. This body gave me my Archer.

     While I may make jokes about my fat ass, I no longer apologize for my body. It deserves no apology. It deserves a round of applause. All of our bodies do. We women are amazing creatures. So the next time you look in the mirror and catch a glimpse of yourself naked I encourage you to refrain from the usual, mentally picking it apart, focusing on perceived flaws, quickly averting your eyes for fear of seeing something you don't want to see routine. Instead, stand up straight and look at that amazing body, that body that gave life, protected and nourished it and embrace it. Treat it with the respect that it deserves. It truly is an incredible body.

Work it, mama

     Monday through Thursday every week, I pack up my lunch, my work bag, my breast pump and cooler and load them into my waiting, running car. I then return to the house, gather up my little one, bundling him in blankets and a hat and leave our warm house to drive a few miles in the crisp, winter air and drop him off at my parent's house.

     I am a working mom, well, we all are. But I work outside of the home.

     Being a working mom is a lot like being in the mob. You are happy to bring in the money, but it comes with a lot of guilt, tears and usually some colorful language.

     I absolutely love my work. I love what I do. I am one of the few people who work in the actual job that they envisioned when they were completing seemingly endless papers, projects and internships in college and grad school. I work with the sweetest people on Earth and my coworkers are fantastic. I have a very comfortable work environment and I get to make my own hours. But none of that makes it any easier when I put on my coat and wave goodbye to my little man in the morning, knowing that by the time I see him again the sky will be turning dark with night and he will be a few short, precious hours from bedtime. I love my work, but I love being a mommy more and many evenings after coming home to find him already asleep I catch myself standing over him trying to will him awake with my eyes and feeling guilty for the time that I lost.

     I am terrified of the things I will miss while I'm working, the milestones that I will not witness. I haven't missed one yet, but I know that it's coming. The odds are against me. I work more days than I'm home. Walking out of the door with my child looking longingly after me is a special kind of guilt. Especially knowing how difficult it was for me to get him here in the first place. I imagine it will only get harder the older he gets, once he is old enough to cry for me to stay. When he is old enough to miss me. I dread that.

     I work four days per week, eight hours per day. I see two clients, pump, see two clients, pump, see two clients and then head home. I am grateful to be able to pump so that even though I am not physically with him all day, an important part of me is. He is on my mind every minute of that time. My office is a shrine to my son, my appointment book has a picture of Archer on the cover. I try in every way to keep him as much a part of my day as physically possible.

     While away, I make the best of it. I turn my music up loud in the car, songs that I won't play when he is my passenger. If you pass me on the road and you hear Killing in the name of blasting from my car stereo you will know that I am on my way to or from work. I take my bills to work and pay them from there so that I don't have to take time away from him to do it at home. I've been known to paint my nails at work while pumping if I have an event coming up that weekend. I am lucky that my husband agrees to cook dinner at night so that I can have my evenings free to focus on Archer.

     I keep waiting for it to get easy. Seven months in almost... but I still feel that familiar tug at my heart everyday when I walk out of my parent's house leaving my buddy behind. It feels unnatural. It's definitely not easy yet.

     Not that it's easy staying home. Being that I work four days per week, I am home the remaining three and I can tell you without a doubt, I am significantly more worn out after a day of being home. Being a stay at home mommy is so difficult physically and mentally. It's extremely hard work and the pay sucks. There is absolutely no down time and somehow I never manage to have a chance to eat or pee. Maybe I would get a better system if I was home everyday. But while staying at home beats you up physically, being a working mommy beats you up emotionally. You walk around all day with a part of your heart missing.

     I completely get why there is the unspoken yet sometimes passive aggressively spoken conflict between the two different types of mommies. I think we are all a bit jealous of one another. I would kill to spend every day with my little guy, helping and watching him hit all of his milestones. I would adore that. But it's just not in the cards for me. Not if I want to live in a house, sleep in a bed and drive a car from point A to point B. And I believe that stay at home moms are probably envious of us working moms for having a few hours a day to ourselves and our own thoughts, adult conversations and a paycheck. It's like straight versus curly hair, we all want a little of what we don't have.

     Throughout my 5 weeks of maternity leave, I dreaded the day that I would return to work. Looking back, I wish I hadn't worried about it so much. The fears of returning to work took away from my enjoyment of my time at home. On my first day back, I cried the whole way to the office. I felt silly. What was I worried about? Archer was with my mother, the only other human being on the planet that I know for certain would care for him the way that I wanted. But I felt devastated. Completely lost. I felt like I was missing an arm. I counted the minutes until I could go home and hug my little love again.

     I tried to keep my sense of humor and took the opportunity to recreate the picture on my nursing bra box that my husband and I had both enjoyed so much. Very official and important looking on her laptop, hooked up to her milking machine, elegant sweater over her shoulders. He seemed to enjoy the picture message. But a million times throughout my day my thoughts drifted across town to my little Archer and months later they still do. I wonder if he notices that I am not there. I wonder if he misses me. My heart aches from missing him.

     My biggest concerns at work have changed as well. The parking lot for my building is about a block away down a dark, scary alleyway and prior to being a mom I worried about being mugged going into or leaving my office. Now my biggest fear is that someone will think my breast pump and cooler bag is a purse and steal them. I picture myself running after the assailant yelling, “that's a pump and breast milk, not a purse!” Usually in my daydream he gently puts down my bag and continues running and I am just grateful that he heard me. Mom brain is crazy.

     I would be lying if I said a part of me doesn't appreciate the hours that I get to use both of my hands to eat or complete a task, or the chance to pee whenever I need to do so. The time that I miss makes me appreciate the time that I do have with my son that much more. I cherish even fussy weekends because at least I'm there with him. If I get an invitation to an event that he can't tag along to, you likely won't see me there. No one on Earth gets priority over him. There just isn't anything that I want to do as much as spend time with him. In a lot of ways I think that working outside of the home has made me a more patient and attentive mother. I just don't want to miss an extra second than I have to with him.

     I have had a few occasions over the past 7 months where my mother could not watch Archer for a day or so, and on those days he comes to work with me. As exhausting as those days are and as nerve wracking due to the endless possibilities of diaper blow outs, crying jags and on demand feedings, these are days that I cherish. My little copilot, right by my side where he belongs. But I know the day will come when this is no longer an option as well. As he gets older and begins to talk and repeat, a confidential therapy session will probably not be the best place for him. But in the meantime, I am forever grateful for these days.

     I think I am in the same place as a lot of working moms. We have all had people question our decision to return to work and say that they don't feel money is worth leaving their kids all day. I imagine they picture me as Scrooge McDuck, diving into a pool of money that I keep piled up in my house. I assure you, if I didn't need to work, I wouldn't. Could I work less and still survive? Yes. But I want certain things for Archer, and unfortunately those things aren't free. I don't intend to hand him everything, or spoil him with new cars or the very latest technology, but it is important to me that he get the opportunity to travel and experience things that will help him to grow and learn as a person. I want to have a savings ready for him as my parent's did for me to use on his first car or put toward college or a year studying abroad, maybe toward a down payment or closing costs on his first home. That is important to me. I want life insurance on all of us and the security that it can provide for him and his future. I want a good school when the time comes and the chance for him to be involved in activities. These things cost money. These things are important to me. Many of these same mom's who try to make me feel bad for working sit in front of me on their phones, completely ignoring their kids who are falling all over themselves trying to get their attention.

     I think that there is a difference between quality and quantity of time. You can spend every moment with your child, but if you spend that time yelling at or ignoring them you might as well be working. I try to make the time that I do get with Archer as happy, fun and loving for him as possible. I want the quality of our time to be great.

     Before baby, I struggled with “me time.” Work was a priority and if something came up and I was in a position to drop everything to take care of it, I would. No more. Now my time at work is my time at work and my time at home is Archer's time. No more calls at home, stopping in the office on my day off to tie a loose end or staying late for paperwork. When I'm home I'm no longer a social worker, I'm just mommy, and I live for that. I think it is a much better balance. A much better quality of life for my entire little family.

     The guilt is so hard. That is exactly why as a working mom you must always remind yourself of why you get up everyday and overcome the urge to just call the office and quit. Remember the opportunities that you are working toward for your child. Forgive yourself for the things that you will inevitably miss and while you're at it, forgive the stay at home moms as well. Gaining understanding and acceptance for each others choices and supporting each other is imperative in our collective success as the mother's of this generation. Being a mommy is hard work regardless of your stay at home or working status. I think the one thing we can all agree on is that the family would be lost without any of us.

That Moment When You're Human

     As a trauma therapist, I spend the majority of my day listening to stories of absolutely heartbreaking experiences. I see the pain on my client's faces; see the depth of suffering in their eyes as they mentally relive the darkest experiences of their lives. This is absolutely one of the hardest parts of my day. I genuinely like my clients, they are all such kind, generous, thoughtful people and I hate thinking of any of them living the horrific scenes that they describe to me daily. Often these stories are peppered with tears. Tears that at once comfort and frustrate them because of their seemingly endless caress. There is something very intimate, very bonding about being present while someone else is crying. I always feel that it is such an honor to be present because I am aware of how fiercely most people protect the time in which they cry. It is generally saved for private moments or those shared with only the very closest friends or family. I make an effort to treat those moments with the respect that I believe they deserve. I am a silent witness, only validating them in the grief that they feel for the person they were before a traumatic experience shook them to their core and altered the very person that they now see when they look in the mirror.

     I have teared up many times in sessions. It is incredibly difficult to listen to people who you genuinely care about speak so in depth about their pain and suffering. It is an iron clad therapist rule however to put up a wall and never cry in a client's session. This is not to be cold or impersonal, but because it is necessary to do the job. Early in trauma therapy training you learn a key component to counseling. A client will never tell you more than they think that you can handle to hear. If you become a mess, sobbing and blowing your nose their natural instinct as humans is to try to protect and comfort you, and their healing just cannot happen that way. So as a therapist, you put up a wall. It distances you and allows you to listen to people who you care so much for while they tell you about their daily struggles. I have a very good wall. So generally, I manage to keep my own eyes dry and the task of helping them to heal always in the forefront of my thoughts. What do they need? That is what I can control. I can't stop the experience from happening to them, but I can stop the torture that they continue to feel today. But sometimes, even with my wall, their stories get in. In those cases, I tuck my head down like I'm typing in their notes and let my own tears recede back into my eyes, validate their pain then continue on like nothing ever happened. I have only stumbled over this once and I have had a second, very close call. Both were in the same week, and both were near the end of my time trying to conceive.

     My close call was during a session with a little girl whose mother had abandoned her for a new boyfriend. The mother had moved out of their home and left her with a family friend to live her life single and childless. I adored this little girl. She was smart, charming, funny and absolutely beautiful. She was everything that anyone could ever want in a daughter. As is common with my kids, we play games to allow them to open up and talk more easily. That day, about two years into my trying to conceive, we were playing Lego’s. All of the sudden she stopped and looked up at me with a huge, sweet smile on her little face and asked if I had kids. “Not yet,” I replied, feeling the familiar sting in my heart. She cheerfully continued. “I'm going to go home with you and live with you then,” she said. “You can be my mommy.” I felt the tears come on, felt myself start to sweat in panic. I cannot burst into tears in front of this little girl, I reprimanded myself. As is common with tears, the more you try to hold them in, the more they fight to come out. I avoided her eye contact, but smiled and thanked her for such a sweet compliment and told her how very proud I would be to have a daughter like her. She glowed and I felt like I was dying inside. But I pulled it together, and to this day I am not sure how. That was an hour that I just got through and the minute it was over and I was alone in my office I burst into tears. I cried for myself, I cried for her, I cried for her stupid mother who didn't even realize how fortunate she was. I cried for every motherless child and every childless mother in the world. I cried for all of us that day.

     Later that week, I sat in another session, this time with a man who had been struggling with debilitating anxiety for years. He was frustrated and tired and at the end of a long list of medications that he had tried but were never the right mix. He was feeling lost and hopeless and like the day was never going to come when he would be able to function like himself again. My heart broke for him. Anxiety is difficult, but it wasn't even that piece of what he was saying that resonated with me at that time. It was the waiting. The endless trying, the feeling that door after door was being closed and the number of doors remaining open was dwindling to nothing. It was the desperation in his voice and the pleading in his eyes that gripped my heart and just twisted it. I heard myself in his struggle. He was treading water but losing hope of a rescue fast and I could relate more than he could ever know.

     “Sometimes, you just have to keep trying,” I said. Even as the words came out of my mouth I didn't know if I believed them. Maybe there wasn't hope for either of us. Maybe this really was it. Maybe this was all we had to look forward to, more of the same. “We don't always get to choose when things finally click,” I said. “Sometimes we have to keep looking until. And we just have to have faith that until is coming and someday we will look back and be stronger for the journey.” I was talking to him, but I was hearing my words in my own heart and at that moment I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I don't know if it was because I was the one talking for a change and the waver of my voice gave me away or if the subject matter just hit way to close to home but with horror I felt the tears begin to run down my cheeks. I jumped up to grab a tissue from the box beside my couch and quickly attempted to pull myself together. As I feared, my client immediately asked if I was okay, which as a human I appreciated but as a clinician made me cringe. “I'm fine,” I assured him, trying to sound convincing. I decided in that moment to cut my losses and attempt to just speak to him person to person. I let him know that he isn't alone. That so many things in life are outside of our control and that you just do your best within that reality. You control the things that you can, and have faith that the rest will work itself out. But I reminded him that giving up, while an option only robs us of the future that we are capable of creating. I promised him that I plan to never give up on what I want and I encouraged him to fight right along with me. I believe, well I hope that he appreciated the honesty and if nothing else could at least feel a little less alone in that moment, in that struggle.

     In the moment I however, was mortified. But I share this experience with you because I think that often, when navigating infertility, we try to be so strong. We have to be, there is no other choice. We have to live our lives regardless. The world doesn't just stop because you have reproductive issues. But those moments are going to come when you break. And that's okay too. You're human and it's incredibly painful to want a child of your own so badly, and feel this dream slip through your fingers month after month after month. So forgive yourself when those human moments happen. And when it passes, and you feel yourself regain your strength, you pick yourself up and continue on, knowing that someday all of this pain will be worth it, and that you are never alone.