Okay, So Probably Not Worth a Whole Thousand Words,

but these pictures crack me up.

We took these pictures the day before Ethan's haircut last week, after he got his hands on Husband's styling product. Clearly, he needed a little bit of a trim.

And yes, that's my pink Snuggie behind him in the first picture. Don't judge.

It's baaaaaack...

Remember that sinus infection I had about 2 weeks ago? I went to the doctor's office and sat around in the waiting room like this:


I took my five days of antibiotics and felt much better almost immediately. And since. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I went through two boxes of tissues, coughed up one of my lungs and felt craptacular all over.

Today? Another box of tissues, the immense joy of actually being able to HEAR whatever is IN my sinuses popping as it shifts and jockies for space. All I can think of is those disgusting little mucus creatures in the Mucinex commercials, you know--this freak:

and I'm telling you, I want to gouge my sinuses out at the thought of him and his friends digging around in my head. I make Husband change the channel every time this little cretin comes on the screen because OMG, FREAKING DISGUSTING! And now he's in my head. Ugh.

So fine. On Monday, I'll go back to the doctor for another round of horse pills. Maybe I'll even get another one of those kicky face masks to sport at the doctor's office. Thankfully I've still got the Robitussin with codeine so I can sleep (mmmmm, codeine). Except that I have to get up tomorrow morning for another follicle check. So I can't really sleep too much. Which is awesome. Because when you're sick, nothing rocks it like getting up early.

But seriously. On Monday we've got a giant feast at Ethan's preschool. On Tuesday, family is coming into town. Somewhere in there I am hoping for a few hawt minutes in the stirrups with a turkey baster. On Thursday we are hosting Thanksgiving. And on Monday of the next week, Husband head out of town on business for eleven days. This is NOT the time for me to get all sicky. Again.

Super!!!!

Friday night, you ALMOST got me...

Is this month OVER yet?! Because seriously, I have never had less to say.

And that is saying something. No pun intended.

Thankfully the NaBloPoMo rules include nothing about having anything worthwhile to say. Just that you put something up every day. So here you go.

I am thinking of setting my alarm clock and getting up early next Friday and becoming part of the crazyass masses who trample each other at 5am to run like lunatics through the aisles, mindlessly grabbing at things and throwing them into a cart. Not because there is ANYthing on our list remotely that coveted. But because I've never done it and I figure that's one of those things that everyone should do at least once in their life.

And because I think it would make a freaking hilarious blog entry.

Stop Me If You've Heard The One About How My Ovaries Suuuuuuuck!!!

Oh you have? Well, yer gonna hear it again.

Follicle check #2 today? Super awesome. If by super awesome I really mean a giant swirling maelstrom of FAIL.

Right ovary? What right ovary? Out. To. Lunch. Thus far, in the months I've been monitored, the right ovary has done zilch, leading me to wonder if it's just on a permanent vacation, never to spit out another egg again. Buh-bye, right ovary, we hardly knew ye.

Left ovary? Two little follicles that may or may not actually mature enough to merit a few precious moments with the turkey baster.

Sound familiar?! That's because it IS. This is exactly what my ovaries did in reaction to Clomid. Two little follicles in my left ovary that are pretty much the dictionary definition of "meh". That's all I got with Clomid. And it's all I've got after 900 ius of Follistim.

In the world of fertility treatments, Clomid is supposed to be the gateway drug, the silly little (but very effective for some) pills you try out before you start swabbing your tummy with an alcohol pad and dosing yourself up with all that FSHy goodness. I've moved on to the big guns, the stuff that's supposed to pack the bigger punch. These are the sorts of drugs that made the Octomom who she is today (don't even get me started) and who gave the world the glory (erm, puke) that is Kate Gosselin and her eleventy billion kids.

Do NOT get me wrong. No way in the world 6 or 8 babies are going to be housed in or pulled from this body at ANY point, EVER. But given my age ("advanced maternal age"--it's the feel good label of the century, people!!!), what I gather is that it's in my best interest to have lots of potential follicles because it's pretty freaking likely that eh, they aren't going to do anything anyway. So if I have 4 or 5 follicles, MAYBE one of them will take. With two follicles? That are mediocre at best? Meh.

So my RE (who is a sharp dresser with a kicky bob and blunt bangs, by the way; at least I enjoy seeing what shoes she's wearing every time I go into the office) wants to see me again on Sunday. For another follicle check. Sunday was initially the first of my potential IUI days. Now it will be another check to see if the follicles are doing anything of note. If they are, maybe the IUI will be on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. For those of you who were looking for a turkey baster joke, you must might get it. If the follicles aren't what the need to be, I guess we move on to the next cycle. WOOOO-FREAKING-HOOOO!

Oh yeah. Good times.

Too Many Hormones Making YOU a Little Crazy?

Me, too!!!!

So the past few days, while I've been shooting up the FSH, I've been a bit, erm, emotional. Now, it's not like I've been inconsolable over holiday jewelry commercials (they are, without a doubt, the cheesiest little bits of marketing ever ever ever and no amount of artificially induced hormonal hypersensitivity could compel me to shed a tear over a stuffed bear and a diamond pendant), but I have found myself once or twice feeling a bit overwhelmed by emotions when I normally wouldn't be.

Yesterday I finally decided to hang family pictures in the hallway, and in trying to find a few extra pictures to put in random frames, I ended up pouring over twelve different photo albums of Ethan. Looking at pictures like this:

and this:

oh, and maybe a little bit of this:

And please, I'm only human. I got a little weepy. When did he go from that to this?

Don't get me wrong; I LOVE every second of watching Ethan grow up and become the amazing little person that he is. But, oh my gawd, I miss my tiny little preshus smooshy baby!!!!! Perhaps these hormones I'm shooting into my belly nightly are intended to prime the pump of maternal instincts and gear one up for thinking all of that spitting up, raw nipples and sleep deprivation-induced insanity is worth it because "zOMG, look at that cutie-cute-cutie!!!!!"

For what ever reason, I spent a good portion of yesterday afternoon letting my now 3.5 year old kiddo melt his brain in front of Noggin while I flipped through page after page of him being a tiny little toe-chewing baby and being a weepy little baby myself. Big Fat Sigh.

Also? Songs. Last week, Cold Play's "Fix You," which is the song I listened to almost daily during my pregnancy with Ethan, came on the radio as I was driving home from preschool drop off. Holy tear duct leakage, batman! All about wanting to protect the person you love most in the world from the hurts and disappointments in life. Powerful stuff when you're stuck in bed at a 45-degree angle trying to keep your baby from coming into the world at 26 weeks, or when you're hobbling out of the NICU, leaving your tiny little baby behind so that he can grow strong enough to come home to you.

And on Monday when I was driving home from my somewhat disappointing follicle check, I heard that weird song/poem that was so popular a few years ago about wearing sunscreen. Which was actually about a lot more than wearing sunscreen. Remember it?

Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)--Baz Luhrmann

Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '97

Wear sunscreen

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be

It. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by

Scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable

Than my own meandering

Experience…I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not

Understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded.

But trust me, in 20 years you'll look back at photos of yourself and

Recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before

You and how fabulous you really looked….You're not as fat as you

Imagine.

Don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as

Effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing

Bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that

Never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm

On some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing everyday that scares you

Sing

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts, don't put up with

People who are reckless with yours.

Floss

Don't waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you're ahead, sometimes

You're behind…the race is long, and in the end, it's only with

Yourself.

Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you

Succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your

Life…the most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they

Wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year

Olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't, maybe you'll have children, maybe

You won't, maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky

Chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don't

Congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your

Choices are half chance, so are everybody else's. Enjoy your body,

Use it every way you can…don't be afraid of it, or what other people

Think of it, it's the greatest instrument you'll ever

Own...

Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.

(Brother and sister together we'll make it through

Someday your spirit will take you and guide you there

I know you've been hurting, but I've been waiting to be there

For you. And I'll be there, just tell me now, whenever I can.

Everybody's free.)

Get to know your parents, you never know when they'll be gone for

Good.

Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the

People most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you

Should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and

Lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you

Knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live

In Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will

Philander, you too will get old, and when you do you'll fantasize

That when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were

Noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund,

Maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one

Might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair, or by the time you're 40, it will

Look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who

Supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of

Fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the

Ugly parts and recycling it for more than

It's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen…

(Brother and sister together we'll make it through

Someday your spirit will take you and guide you there

I know you've been hurting, but I've been waiting to be there

For you. And I'll be there, just tell me now, whenever I can.

Everybody's free.)

When I first heard it years ago, I thought, "Hm. Deep," and moved on. Hearing it earlier this week, though, as a mother thinking about her child (and thinking about another one that might find it's way into our lives at some point), I actually had to pull into a parking lot, roll down the window and give myself some air. Yeah. I know. Awwwwwkward. Reading the lyrics now, I'm not really sure why it impacted me so fiercely. I mean, it is thought-provoking and poignant, especially in terms of all the things you want for your child in life, but I'm pretty sure that 99.99% of people who heard it on the radio that morning were in fact, NOT overcome by emotion to the point of needing a time-out. But isn't that the nature of the hormonally imbalanced freak out? What seems huge one second is silly the next.

Yeah, I'm so there.

Also? I'm breaking out like a 12 year old. Awesome.

Hrm. This is a First

I don't know what I want for Chrismukkah. Not a clue. I've got one thing on my list that I really want: the new Barbara Kingsolver book.

It's not for lack of holiday spirit. I can barely contain my excitement at the idea of having our friends and family here with us in our new home. I've been quietly gathering pretty pretty little shiny things for our mantels and place settings, trying not to get all Semi-Homemade Sandra Lee creepy with the whole "table scape" insanity. But, please, people! Pretty sparkly shiny things! For the table! Today at Michaels Craft store I was eyeing a bag of fake snow. I don't even know what I'd do with it, but damn I wanted that bag of fake white snow crap.

I bought a holiday CD back in October--yeah. I know. I could have waited, but what if it wasn't there the next time I was at the store???!! At least it's still in it's shrink wrap. I won't bust out the holiday tunes until after Thanksgiving. Promise. But after that, all bets are off. It's all holiday music, all of the time. You know, like the good Jewish girl that I am.

My Cooking Light, Everyday, and Living magazines are all dog-eared and post-it note'd with every recipe of all the appetizers, sides, sweets and drinks I plan to foist upon everyone who walks over my threshold in the next month and a half. Yesterday I baked a pumpkin chocolate chip bread because I simply couldn't go another day without having SOMETHING pumpkin-y smelling up my house.

Today I stocked up on an obscene amount of Melissa and Doug toys for Ethan. I'm bummed that I'm almost done shopping for him. I'm impatiently waiting for my family to start their lists (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and I can't wait to start wrapping pretty boxes and bows. And don't get me started on a tree. Decorated with silver and blue. Because, again, I'm a good Jewish girl.

But me? I can't really think of anything I want or need, aside from a house full of people I love, laughing and telling stories and eating yummy food. Hmm.

Nothing says "I deserve a giant bowl of peppermint stick ice cream"

like ovaries that just won't fucking behave. This morning I went for my ultrasound to see exactly what 75 ius of Follistim for 4 days will do to a couple of lazy ovaries. Turns out, not much. Those deadbeat bitches are still just kicking around, taking up space and thinking about maybe producing an egg or two. An egg or two, for our purposes, is not a really great response. I can do an egg all on my own, by my lonesome, without stabbing myself in the stomach every night and injecting myself with more hormones than my own body has ever created on its own.

Considering that the vast majority of my old lady eggs are unlikely to do anything but nod lazily at the sperm as it passes by, we need several eggs setting up shop at the time of the IUI, so that maybe, just perchance, one of my eggs will say, "you know what? I'm feeling feisty today," and tango with a sperm. You know those groups of older ladies who go places wearing red hats and talking about how when they're old, they'll wear purple? Yeah. I am looking for an egg with that kind of "can do!" attitude. That's the egg that's going to take. But she's not getting out of bed for 75 ius.

So perky RE and her entourage (it's a teaching hospital--my lady parts always have an audience. It's awesome) decided to up my dosage. From 75 ius to 150. I'm not mathematician, but I'm pretty sure that's a doubling my dose. Doubling the dose that already makes me queasy and sleepy and weepy. Are we ready for a full-on emotional shit storm? I hope so, because that's where we're headed people. Bring it.