Blogawhatsa?

Well, it’s been a while. To be honest, I almost gave up this blog thanks to time constraints and my ever increasing lack of motivation.

I turned 29 and was shocked to find that I still had a pulse. Especially after the copious amounts of beer that I consumed…

…But I digress. Anyway, the job hunt continues (unsuccessfully, I might add – overqualified times a jazillion; how does one go about successfully undervaluing themselves?) and I am creeping closer and closer to burnout. More layoffs…further proving that I need to jump ship, ASAP.

In other news, I am going to officially be an auntie to twins! Yes, the IVF worked and my sister is on the way to mommyhood. I am ecstatically happy. And big enough to admit to twinges of jealousy. Sometimes I feel as though I am a ball of envy.

I’ve committed myself to living a healthier lifestyle and losing the weight I gained over the past few years. I was playing that game of ignoring the problem, but a bad lab test and a frank conversation with my doctor have strengthened my resolve.

And somehow, someway, I will be happy again.

Mr. Obnoxious

Have you ever been attracted to someone that you can’t stand?

There is this guy that I work with. He’s got a big, loud mouth with a grating voice and tends to be a bit of a spazz. You know – he’s pretty much obnoxious whenever he opens his yap. And from the few conversations that I’ve had with him (very few – I think we’ve had more arguments than friendly conversations) he seems to have a pretty high opinion of himself. He disdains dating women who make less money than him – I mean, honestly, shallow much? Sure, I’m not inclined to have a committed relationship with someone who is happy to work at 7-11 for the rest of his life….but not because of money. Because of motivation, aspirations, and above all DRIVE.

But for some reason, I totally want to jump him. It’s like I’m masochistic or something. I want to grab him, throw him on the floor, duct tape his offensive mouth and rape him. Whenever I see him – or even hear him, for shit’s sake – I have visions of bodily attacking him. I want him to be my Booty Call. Now. This very second, as I write this.

Did I mention, I have a strict personal policy about not mixing business with pleasure? I have avoided the relationship-at-work trap for ten years and try my best to keep it that way, because I’ve been a part of the mess it can cause in the end. I’m also selfish enough Not to want to be friends with someone I loved after things go bad – over to me is Over. It’s my prerogative. I do not want to be teased with the presence of a former love.

One might assume that the sexual attraction is the result of a smokin’ hot body. One would be wrong. He’s not built; he’s actually on the scrawny side and, though I haven’t seen him shirtless (there goes the imagination again *sigh*) I doubt that there’s much muscle on him at all.

And yet I still want to ride him like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Badly. What makes him extremely intolerable also makes me want to have dirty, sweaty sex with him. Apparently, I am a twisted person.

In other news…

I am horrified to report that I have gone up a bra size. I have never gained weight in my chest, and I’ve always been happy for that fact. But not anymore – not only am I no longer thin, I’m also a 36-D. Fuck. Three C-cup bra’s in my dresser drawer are now officially too small for me – the question is, do I stash them with my size 4 slacks that I know I’ll fit into again Some Day or do I give them away to someone with breasts in need?

The upside of the inflating breasts realization is the new bra’s. I bought a girly bra for the very first time in my life in a desperate attempt to make my own boobs look more attractive. To me. Because you know nobody else is going to see it.

Well, unless I throw caution to the wind and jump Mr. Obnoxious in the supply room….

…….right after I win the lottery, that is.

IUI or ICI?

Gah.

So Jo, who left me a comment (thanks Jo!) brought ICI to my attention. I didn’t realize that this was another option to knocking oneself up.

So my question now is: ICI or IUI? From what I’ve read, ICI is cheaper but the chances of conception are decreased in comparison to IUI. Is ICI the method used for home insemination programs (I presume…)?

It’s so frustrating not to have someone local to answer all my questions: like, for example, wait times for these sorts of procedures in my area. Is it going to take a year for me to even get in to see someone at a fertility clinic? I think there’s only one in Edmonton (which is the city closest to me)…is that correct? And how long does it take to get through all the pre-screening before even having an IUI (or ICI) done?

I submitted my ‘application’ to join the ChoiceMom’s yahoo group over a week ago and still haven’t been approved, nor have I gotten any further communication since. I just have so many questions that need more than general answers….

BFF & Baby Makes 4

BFF just called me from the hospital. She went in at about 6:30 this morning for Baby #2, a little girl. She is 8 cm and the healthcare personnel think that things are going to happen very quickly!

I haven’t given much background on BFF yet…guess I should get to that. And what better opportunity?

After College, I worked for about a year in Geriatrics before finally admitting that it wasn’t where I wanted to be. So I picked up a temp position as a Receptionist at a large Corporation in the meantime; the position ended up going permanent and a few months later I was transferred to Finance.

I ended up in a cubicle next to BFF. Have you ever sat down next to someone and felt as though you’d done it a million times? There was no hesitancy or akwardness between BFF and I; it was like we’d known each other our whole lives. Somehow, our intense differences compliment each other – she is quiet and low-key, I am boisterous and outgoing. She calms me, and I bring out her silly side. BFF is that once-in-a-lifetime friend.

Girls, you know what I mean.

The friend who will keep an eye out for you during a Christmas party, when you are totally ripped and she is playing it sober. She holds your hair back out of your face when you’re sure you’re about to puke, and rubs your back the whole time. She’s the one who encourages you, repeatedly, to join online dating sites and go to speed dating, even offers to take her married self with you, anything just to make sure you are open to it. She takes you for a makeover and helps you shop for clothes after you’ve gained forty pounds, and then she finds stuff that makes you look good. Damn good.

In her own subtle, wonderful way, she lifts up your self-confidence.

She’s the friend you call when there is nobody else who understands….when you break down and do something you rarely do, Cry, because the Paternal Non-Influence has had a heart attack. Chic is devastated and trying to sway you over to the dark side, playing on your guilt and feelings of obligation, and you are so confused because what if he dies and you look back ten years from now and have nothing but regrets?? BFF listens in sympathy, and what little she says is just right.

And she’s the person you go to, even before your sisters, when you make the huge decision to pursue Donor Insemination. Because you know, you just feel in your heart, that she is going to cheer you on.

And she does.

BFF is the one I can say anything to, good and bad. She doesn’t judge me or whisper my confidences in other ears. I can say the most ridiculous things to her, and she has yet to think that I’m an escapee from a mental institute. With BFF, I can be myself, completely.

BFF’s mother died of a horrible disease when my friend was a child*. Because of this, BFF had decided, as a teen, not to have kids…but then she got married. And everyone around her started having kids. And BFF came to me one day, upset and worried, and I listened in sympathy and what little I said was (I hope) just right.

And here we are, four years later, and BFF is at this very moment bringing her second child into this world. My Best Freaking Friend is going to have another beautiful baby**. I’m going to be an honorary auntie for the second time.

For you, my BFF. I love you.

Update: Aubrey Jane was born an hour and a half ago! Six pounds, twelve ounces, 19 inches long and a thick, dark head of hair just like her older brother
Momma and baby are well but have to stay in the hospital until Friday – Mom had an infection and they are going to be closely monitored.

*It is not my right to disclose personal information about BFF. I keep her confidences just as well as she keeps mine.

**Is it horrible for me to say how incredibly envious I am right now? How even at this minute I can’t help but wish desperately that it was me?

What I Do

When I’m not obsessing about babies, I’m spending time at what I do best:

Dahlia

Gardening is one of my favourite things to do. I love every aspect of it, from planting and pruning to watering and weeding. There is something extremely therapeutic about just digging my fingers into the cool, dark soil and turning it over.

Daisies

My spring blooming perennials are pretty late this year, thanks to the snow that we had in May. But in the next week or so, my Iris’, Peonies, Lilies and more will be in full bloom and ready for pictures!

In the meanwhile, though, it’s nice to know that every once in a while my garden surprises me.

Siberian Bugloss, Bearded Iris and a Big Black Dog

On Families

I’ve been doing a lot of reading in my quest to be as informed as possible about DI. I’ve read the articles that vilify SMC for willfully creating a family unit that doesn’t include a paternal influence, the blogs from kids who are trying to find information about their paternal donor, stories from children who speak positively of being raised by a Mom who went through IUI and heartwarming stories from the Mothers. Any and every angle, black and white and grey.

I like to think that I have a unique perspective as a child of a single (divorced) mother. You see, until my fourteenth birthday I was raised in an extremely toxic household – and the ideal of a family. Dad, Mom, three children. Two cats and two dogs. My Mom was at home until I was about 4, we lived in nice houses in the country and from the outside looked like the perfect little family. But my paternal influence was physically and emotionally abusive, as well as an alcoholic. I cannot call this man my father, even though he was ‘Dad’ for the first sixteen years of my life; now, he is just some man who has a relationship with one of my sisters, and is a constant source of heartache for the other.

My Mom, my wonderful, brave, capable Mom tried to leave with her kids several times. I remember the final time with such clarity; my petite mother packing us up, him coming home suddenly after a phone conversation….she locked the door and the snow shovel became a weapon. To this day I can still hear the tinkle of glass and the utter, absolute fear. My life truly began the moment we got in her car and drove away from that house, that prison in hell.

I still wear the scars, hidden under the competent, independent exterior that my Mom instilled in me. For so, so long I had no self-confidence to speak of, I truly believed myself to be worth nothing. Dumb, ugly, and unworthy of love. I had to fight, tooth and nail, for the belief that I now hold in myself. I had to build my own self-image from the bottom up and still fight against worthlessness, to this moment. This very moment.

I have difficulty committing myself to another person. Trust is not something that comes easily to me, and I am unable and unwilling to give my independence away. I have never lived with any of my past boyfriends. One ex-, at the end, threw in my face that I am unwilling to ask or accept help. The one man that I loved lived 4200 km’s away from me and wasn’t strong enough to handle a long-distance relationship. He was the only man that I ever cried over, and the one that I still miss, to this day. I have seen psychologists about my emotional responses and it’s something that I continually work on, every time I meet a man.

My sisters, too, have had their characters shaped by the paternal influence. Chic is 30 and has already been through one marriage, which ended partially because she had an affair. She has never had a relationship with herself, and is incapable of living without a man. Petra Pan bounces from bed to bed, having sexual relations with men she works with, even married men, unknown men in bars, visits to the clinic the following morning for pills……and I close myself off, exuding an invisible line that Shall Not be Passed.

Because of the man who was my father for sixteen years, until I finally had enough and made the adult decision to exclude him from my life.

So when I read about the statistics and the sarcastic articles about the effects of single parenting – and that includes any form of single parenting – I can’t help but disagree and, well, get a little bit pissed. Because it’s not being raised by a single mother that accounts for my emotional scars, it’s being raised in a cookie-cutter family unit with a father that explains me. And because when I was younger, I thought it was just me that grew up in a dysfunctional family…until I learned, through my friends, that everyone’s family has it’s obstacles. No matter how many people are in that family unit, or what gender they are.

The conclusion that I’ve come to is that having a traditional family is no guarantee of well-adjusted, successful children. It’s quality, not quantity, that’s important.

And you want to know what? Thanks to the quality of The Greatest Single Mom. Ever. I’ll be just fine.

Patience is a Virt…..Errr….Babies??

I can’t stop thinking about babies.

I made a conscious decision for my future as a mother and it has opened up the floodgates. Stop, rewind…suddenly I feel twenty four again, full of hope and possibility. Arms wide open, ready to humble myself on the steps of motherhood. The world is my oyster and I’m ready to swallow it whole!

But.

Ahh, there’s always a but. At twenty four, I surely had two hundred years ahead of me and there was a single (free) man on every street corner. My older and somewhat wiser self knows what a fallacy this is, and is constantly living in the crosshairs of time. So I am all “Y-hea! I can make it happen, I’ll be a Mom one way or another in three years or sooner I just have to be patient!” and “Dee-dee-dee-dee-do-dee-dum (that’s the Jeopardy theme BTW)….tick tock tick tock what are you waiting for do it NowNowNOW!”.

And it’s. All! that I can think about.

When I’m in the decision stage of something (whether it’s a purchase or an opinion) I can take months, and even years, investigating every angle of my options. But once I’ve made an informed decision, I tend to get very impatient and work to make things happen as soon as possible. My patience, which is legendary, disappears. I jump in the deep end fully clothed and race for the finish line.

It’s difficult to hold myself back, to not just jump into it and start working on becoming pregnant. Every day my heart finds excuses why I need to start the process immediately, while my head desperately injects logical reasons why I Have to wait. I had a Dr.’s appointment a few days ago and didn’t discuss the decision with her; it was a way to hold back, to try and pace myself (and also because my Doctor is a very religious lady, and I’ll admit to concern about her reaction). When it nags at me, I remind myself of the house I’m saving up for, the multitude of steps I need to traverse to ensure that I can provide a child with the basic, necessary securities.

So I thought, why not make a list? Something that I can go to when impatience overrides my better judgement? A list of the goals I want to achieve before I begin the process of becoming a mother*:

- Buy a house. Nothing large, nothing fancy – all I want is a nice big yard so that I can garden and my dogs have an area to chill.
- Pay off my car loan. By summer 2010.
- Clear my credit card debt by year end 2009.
- Find a job that is less stressful and closer to my home town (I currently drive about an hour – in good traffic – to work round trip. I am in Credit / Collections in the oilfield sector, and my job is extremely stressfull with a huge amount of overtime)
- Begin dog grooming course in Sept/09 and finish Apr/10
- Get more fit and eat healthier! (be one with breakfast…ugggg)

I am not giving up completely on finding Mr. Right; I still have three years after all!!
I just have to last three years…..

“Tick tock tick tock tick tock…….FOAD I am Waiting! Waiting!!! OhdoGIfeelmywillpowercrumbli…babybabybabybaby……”

*These are all goals that preceed the decision to pursue DI and SMC, one’s that I’ve been chipping away at for a while now.

All That I Want

A few years ago, my longing for children started to become a twisted, bitter thing with fangs. That yearning, combined with my newly single-status and the despair of being utterly helpless in getting what I wanted (a baby, right NOW), made it difficult to even watch a commercial on TV that had kids in it.

I was suddenly envious all the time. Where before I used to deliberately seek out children, I now avoided them. I didn’t want to hear about my friend’s pregnancies, I didn’t want to have to pretend happiness for their news when what I really wanted was to scream “Why Not ME?!” and break down into a melting cesspool of smudged mascara. After all, I wasn’t supposed to be here, in this alternate universe where I was unmarried and childless…this wasn’t supposed to be my life in my late twenties. This unhappiness deep inside of me lasted for years. Three years. It was self-preservation of a kind that I fought desperately against, that I couldn’t seem to help.

Until several months ago when, out of nothing other than my sheer desperation, I googled the terms artificial and insemination. And the results that google showed me were life-changing: Single Mother’s by Choice. Blogs from women in all stages of life, words that were a balm to my soul, stories that have helped me to heal the bitterness in my heart and allowed me to grasp the reins of control again. I was suddenly surrounded by people and stories that I could have been written by me, about my life.

I talked to my Mom about it first; she is, after all, my Mom. She also raised three girls all by herself after leaving my abusive, alcoholic sperm donor. I have reflected on the irony of this – the man who participated in my conception is not my father. To me, father is a term that has to be earned and the only man in my life who is worthy of that title is my Grandfather. So my own existence is strikingly similar to any child that I might conceive by donor insemination, with the obvious exception of the negative impact that my own sperm donor had on my formative years before my Mom left with us.

So who would know better than her? And whose support would be the most critical in all of this? I was hesitant to tell her because my Mom is old-fashioned and has certain expectations of how one should go about living life. She’s a product of her generation, and the single strongest-willed person I know. I believed, without a doubt, that she would be against my becoming a single mother by choice. And I was happy to be wrong; she has been behind me in this decision since I first told her that I was considering donor insemination. She even commented that I should do it right away. When I told her that I would wait until I was 35 so that I could still pursue having a child with someone I love, she brought up important points regarding my chronic disease, age and reproduction that compelled me to change my decision age to 32.

Those feelings of bitterness and envy have faded….but now all I can think about again is being a Mom. The feelings that I’d so long been suppressing have come back twofold – I’m not ashamed to admit that I would be in the trying stage of single motherhood tomorrow if I were the type to just jump into things. But I am not prepared to be the least bit unprepared for life as a SMC – there are some affairs that I am going to get in order first. I have some debt (money owing on my car and a credit card) that will be paid off by the end of the year. I am going to be taking an online schooling course in September that will take approximately six months. And, most importantly, I am working towards purchasing my own house so that I’m not at the whim of rent anymore.

And it’s a terrifying decision, at least for me. I am afraid to talk about it with my GP, who is a very religious lady. I want to join support groups but I feel like I’m not close enough to the decision yet, so I wouldn’t really belong. I have (suspected) endometriosis, so I might not even be able to get pregnant at all (and does that mean I should be doing this as soon as possible??). I’m afraid to fully give up the dream of Mr. Right and the traditional path to motherhood.

I have so many questions that go unanswered. And yet, if I reached all of my goals tomorrow, I know that I would be TTC the next day.

I just wish I knew what to do next.

I Feel Like Julius Ceasar Trying To Have a Baby

My older sister, Chic, just left for a fertility clinic in Vancouver. After years of sex sans contraception and pregnancy, followed by fertility drugs this past year and daily ultrasounds etc. etc. etc., she and her hubby have decided that it’s time to try IVF. We all have fingers and toes crossed for them, and I know that soon she’ll be calling me to scream the good news in my ear.

This past weekend, I finally told her about my decision to pursue donor insemination if I’m babyless in three years. I tell Chic everything, and holding this secret close to my chest has been difficult; to date, only my BFF and mother know (and you, internets). Normally Chic would be the very first person I talked to about such a life-altering choice…but somehow, I felt that telling her, in the midst of her own struggles with mommyhood, would be wrong.

I blurted it out, without thinking, while we were commiserating about how all of our friends are having babies. Everywhere we look, babies, babies, babies. (Even my BFF is due to have her second child June 20) Without my even thinking, the words vomited out:

“I’ve decided that, if I am not in a relationship with kids being a definite by 32, I’m going to knock myself up.”

Fifteen seconds of dead silence followed my proclamation. And then, to my surprise and disappointment, she started trying to talk me out of it.

[I suppose some backstory is warranted here. Throughout my whole life, I've been the one who was going to have babies; Chic has always been my greatest supporter in this (even going so far as to set me up on dreaded blind dates in an attempt to get me love and a baby-daddy). Chic, on the other hand, was always a big children-question mark until about a year ago. And for that past year, I've been her biggest cheerleader...even though I have my own doubts regarding her motives for having kids (but that, dear internets, is another story).]

“Do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be as a single mom?”

That statement, out of every deprecating comment that she made about my choice, blew me over the top. I was raised in the same house as her, by the very same single mother (whose children got No emotional or financial support from the sperm donor, I might add) – I may not have walked in the single mom’s shoes, but I’ve been the single mom’s kid.

And you know what? The whole thing scares the hell out of me. From conception to delivery to the teen years. If it didn’t, I’d be the biggest idiot around. The very process of getting pregnant the unconventional way, by myself, freaks me out – every SMC blog I’ve read speaks of an emotional rollercoaster that I fear stepping onto. Years of TTC, therapy after therapy after therapy. Trying, hoping, and then learning that it failed. And having to start the process over, and over, and over again. It’s why I don’t want to wait too long, why I changed my original decision age from 35 to 32. Why, if I were prepared, I would start the process tomorrow.

The irony is that my Mom, who I was sure would be critical of this choice, is behind me 137%. She’s extremely biased and old-fashioned in her opinions, and she helped me to set my goal and even suggested that I not wait (she’d like me to go out tomorrow and do it lol). While I wasn’t paying attention, the world flipped on it’s side and the body snatcher’s invaded.

Because I can, I asked Chic, “Why are you reacting like this?”

“Because you CAN’T have a baby before me!”

And there it was, the monster that usually hides under the bed. One of the reasons that I am worried about her becoming a mother, one of the reasons that I question her motives.

“It’s got nothing to do with you, Chic.”

I tried to be understanding; though our situations are all sorts of different, we are both after the same thing. We should be able to empathize with each other in ways others can’t…or maybe not.

Because she said: “Just think about how I’ll look if my single younger sister has a baby before me!”

Just think. Of how I’ll look. Is this a joke? The conversation went downhill from there, and we said goodbye shortly thereafter, and my mind keeps spinning itself back to that statement, even now, days later. I am worried about the possible consequences of a choice that isn’t even definite, and her concern is how it will make her look.

Et tu, brute?

Not All Cops Look Hot in a Uniform

Last night, while driving home from massage therapy, I got my very first ever traffic violation fine.

After twelve years with a clean driving record, I have become one of those people…..because I rolled through a stop sign when making a right turn. There’s not a whole lot of ha-ha in this (not yet anyway – I am still too angry with myself) and I couldn’t even console myself with some eye-candy-cop.

Mr. Cop made all friendly…and I’ll admit, he was a really nice guy even if he didn’t do anything for my libido. I informed him, as I shook like an addict, that this was my very first ticket ever (yes, I used those words because, after all, I am the soul of professionalism). Then he slammed it on me: the fine for not stopping at a posted stop sign is two hundred and fifty bucks.

Two hundred. And FIFTY. Ouch.

But the most fantastic part of this all? I had a case of Coronita (mini Corona’s! Whoooot!) sitting on the floor of the passenger side. In Alberta, the law is that alcohol, even unopened containers like I was bringing home, has to be out of reach of the driver and any passengers. Basically, in the trunk. I transport alcohol so rarely that I didn’t even think about it and when I left the liquor store on my way home, I just threw the damn thing on the floor.

As Mr. NotHot Cop graciously informed me that he’d reduced my ticket to $170 since it was my first violation, I twisted my upper body towards him, my brain running a vicious monologue of “oh jeezus please don’t let him see the freaking booze, I don’t want more damned demerits and another damn ticket, if I thrust my chest out this way do you think he’ll stay focused on those jugs instead of the ones behind me, it was a mistake just a mistake – Shoulders Back!…“

I don’t think he saw them. If he did, he let me off easy because he didn’t say a word and I didn’t get another ticket.

And the Corona, complete with wedge of lemon, I had when I got home tasted better for some reason.

As for the taste in my mouth when I paid the ticket online this morning….well, it wasn’t making lemonade out of lemons.

It was just bitter.