Amusement (Park)

In a previous moment of navel-gazing I mentioned that I am not sure how I well I will share with Ada the amusements that my parents taught me to disdain. Well, maybe their training was not as thorough as I previously imagined, because Ada and I had a fantastic time at Oaks Park, an old-fashioned (in both the good and bad senses) amusement park on the south end of town.

Through this month, Oaks Park offers pre-school aged children two hours of full access to the kiddie (and as they refer to them, "intermediate") rides. For $6 every Tuesday and Wednesday, the kids can ride the carousel, train, "rockin' tug" and other rides.

When Ada rode a carousel 18 months ago, she looked half dazed and half frightened. Both those emotions are gone, replaced by a joy so complete that she almost shakes.

Please note I have sacrificed here, showing not the "best" picture, 

but the one that gives a glimpse of Ada's permanent carousel-grin.

This week's trip to Oaks Park is our second in as many weeks. Last week Ada cried when we got off the carousel the second time, saying "I don't want to get off. I want to STAY." This week she realized that some of the other rides are just as fun as the carousel (if less picturesque). The balloon ride was a big hit - we rode it three times today. The whole frame rises a few stories into the air, and spins the balloons in a circle. Each basket also spins independently, to Ada's great joy.

The balloon ride may be Ada's new favorite.

A purple motorcycle, what could be better?

Last week, 11:30 came too quickly, and we were caught unaware that the end of ride time was upon us. Not anxious to repeat the tantrum that followed the abrupt end, this week I was careful to tell Ada that the rides were ending soon.  For her last ride, Ada chose the Rockin' Tub, a boat that swings and sways and looks like this (image borrowed from the oaks park website, which OP management should not be upset given all the nice things I am saying about the park):

Before climbing up to the boat, Ada told me I should wait outside. What? My cautious child, telling me to hang back while she climbs in to shake and shimmy? I was floored. Since this was the last ride, I convinced Ada to let me on, albeit two rows behind her.

The family in the row between us commented on how brave she was. She looked very proud of herself. I was thrilled for her, but to be honest, I could have used someone holding my hand a bit.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

I'm adding pecans. You can use, again, what kind of nut you like. Cashews work really well. But I like pecans. You know how squirrels like nuts.

Heidi Wilson
Huntress

The real problem with IVF, part 3

On day 7 of the stimulation meds I lost the ability to function.

The previous weekend was fantastic - camping with Ada, Chris and Juniper, and the start of the week was fine.  I even made it through three evening work events last week, all of which were timed to require injections in assorted bathroom of varying cleanliness. Amazingly, only one of those bathroom visits involved half-explaining myself to a stranger. The stranger in question, who found me with needles and vials in the bathroom at the Chinese Classical Gardens, was completely unfazed and in fact slowed my progress by talking my ear off about the annoyance of having to shlep medications around (she has glaucoma).

A not-so subtle reminder to myself of some of what I already have.

By Friday, I was worn out from a lack of down-time and from medication side effects. By Sunday I wanted to run away from home, or at least flee Ada's unexplained crabbiness for a few hours.  Instead I suffered through the nursery school picnic and took pictures of Ada enjoying the merry-go-round.

She loves the ride, but just thinking about it makes me a little queasy.

Mega-doses of hormones strip away my usual protections.  There is nothing between me and the world, so I feel annoyed and frustrated every easily. Unfortunately, this hyper-emotional state makes me to want to blurt out to everyone that I AM TAKING LOTS OF HORMONES AND AM NOT TOO HAPPY ABOUT IT. Luckily for myself and others, I am mostly able to keep the shouting to a minimum.

I decided to reserve judgment about how this cycle is going until I got the day 10 results Monday afternoon. As usual, my body has responded a bit slowly to the meds, but from the day 7 results it didn't seem like things were going any slower than in the past.  I thought the main thing was just to deal with my over-the-top response to normal frustrations and annoyances.

Well, until Monday afternoon, when Jill called.  I love Jill, who broadcasts her news even before she tells you how sucky it is. Her tone of voice tells all, and I knew from her hello that things were not great. My estrogen is fine, but (as I already knew from the scan) I don't have a lot of eggs. As in - 3 or maybe 4 decent sized ones.  This is a new wrinkle.

I really don't know how to feel.  I mean, I feel shitty, but in a larger way, I don't know how to feel. I have not felt hopeful about this cycle from the get-go. Maybe it is the almost-year of failed cycles behind me. Maybe it is a sense that if it was gong to happen it would have last time when I felt so good about it.

I spent the past few months coming to terms with the idea of not having another child. But coming to terms with it, even thinking there are good things about having only one, it makes it hard to get my hopes up for this round. It is hard to hand over the credit card, repeatedly plunge needles into my belly, suffer the mental and physical annoyances, all while smiling at the nurses and making small talk about shoes or the weather. It was all I could do not to grab the doctor this morning and demand that she agree that this sucks.

Our nanny and friend Juniper has been asking when she should start sending the positive energy our way. Today I told her I needed it.  I need someone else to be positive for me. I am not feeling it myself, and nothing I am hearing from Chris screams hope and excitement, or even whispers that the outcome matters much to him, frankly.

I go back in Tuesday morning, and in the afternoon I will hear whether the few eggs I do have will get plucked Thursday or Friday. I find myself hoping that they'll have me hold out for one more day, but I am not sure why.  An extra day is just that, one more day to hope and fear and make bargains with my body and the 8 celled embryos that will soon inhabit it. Despite the possibility that one or two more eggs will have a chance to mature, an extra day of hoping is just what I don't want.  I can't help but hope for it anyway.

Eggplant for Haters

Magpie Musing and I recently talked about eggplants. She does not like them, and until this summer, neither did I.  Actually, I am still not crazy about eggplants, but I do have one recipe that I enjoy enough to pass it on to her (and to you).  My anti-eggplant/pro-this recipe declaration feels a little like a racist who declares he doesn't like people of such-and-so race, except for that one friend of his who happens to be of that race. Except where racism is just dumb, anti-eggplant bias is totally understandable. So without further ado I present:  

The Eggplant Recipe For People Who Don't Like Eggplant

• 2 Chinese Eggplant  I can only vouch for this recipe if you use skinny asian eggplants. If you use globe (american) eggplant, I think it will be like any other recipe made with globe eggplant, which is to say: sucky.
• Canola oil
• about 1/2 cup Chinese rice wine
• 1/2 to 3/4 cup broth 
• Sesame seeds
• Soy sauce
• Honey or brown sugar
• Dark sesame oil
• Scallions, chopped (I use the whites and some of the greens)
  
• Salt

Slice the eggplants in half lengthwise. Fry the eggplant halves in canola oil (open side down) until they are a bit browned. (don't expect the eggplants to be cooked at this point)

Add the 1/2 cup rice wine and 1/2-2/3 cup broth.  The eggplants should be mostly covered. Cover and simmer until the eggplants are pretty soft when poked with a fork.

Toast the sesame seeds in a dry skillet.  Scootch them around with a spoon to keep from burning.

Heat up a little water (maybe a 1/4 cup) and melt the honey or brown sugar. Make a sauce of soy, honey or brown sugar, sesame oil, chopped scallions, and toasted sesame seeds.

When eggplant is soft, cut halves into pieces, then add to sauce.  Add salt if needed (though I think the soy sauce is salty enough).


Note: Don't come to me all up in arms, yelling "how can you discount eggplant parmesan?" Eggplant parm is something I can eat, but choose not to because really, wouldn't it be better without the eggplant?

Random quote and unrelated photo(s) of the week

Not everyone dreams of being a KJ (karaoke DJ), video game addict and burned out rocker.

Jessica Machado

Is it real . . . or is it 'Rock Band'?

Other Memories

When I look back at what was a day of immense personal and national tragedy, what I remember is sitting in a cubicle in Rhode Island "talking" on the computer to my friends across the country. We spent the day together, conferring, consoling and questioning. I remember this connection with friends from all over, and it makes me feel so lucky.  Not just because no one I know was injured or died, but to have such a caring community around me.

It feels a little awkward to bring this up on a day of remembrance for the lost. It in no way makes what happened on 9/11 less horrible, but I feel compelled to remember that even in such a terrible moment, good existed as well.

Let It Go

On a sunny, perfect afternoon earlier this week, Ellen and I were driving across town with the kids chattering in the backseat. As we sped across the Ross Island Bridge, Ellen told me that she would like to be able to let things go. Literally.

Over the years she has accumulated a lot of things, some of which she can not use now or is holding on to despite their being mis-matched with her life. A roomy house with a big basement have no doubt added to this feeling; it is so easy to keep things: in case they are needed; or you gain or lose 10 pounds; or you grow your hair out again. Other things are kept because they have sentimental value. You do not need that teapot, but it was your great-aunt's, and it is so lovely and delicate.

Ellen was inspired to release some of the things she has accumulated over the years by a neighbor who routinely and generously passes things on to Ellen and Monkey Boy. Ellen decided to commit herself to a year of letting things go, and asked if I would join her. I said yes; I share Ellen's desire to, and fear of, letting go of loved but unused treasures. We agreed that it would be easier to give something away if we knew it was going to someone who wants or needs it.

For Ellen, and for me as well, the release of things implies a release on an emotional as well as a tangible level. Both Ellen and I hang on to feelings, sometimes continuing to wring them out past the time we should let go. Hopefully this release of items can serve as a training ground, allowing both of us to let go of useless feelings about long past events. We may not want to pass such feelings on to others, but we can release them nonetheless.

Letting go is not completely new to either Ellen or me. We give one another clothes, share children's toys, and have even unloaded furniture on one another. But this time we have agreed to be conscious about the release - to find things that we do not need or do not use, and pair them with people who will value them.

Ellen is starting with a plate. The story of the plate is not mine, but maybe Ellen will tell it here. In any case, the plate (which has been in the basement for a long while) is going to find a new home soon. I am still looking for my first item to give away. As practice, I am going to return a shirt given to me by a neighbor. The color was no good for her, but one that works for me. Sadly, the shape is not flattering. By returning the shirt to my neighbor, I hope she will be able to find a more suitable home for it.

Things have stories. They are our stories, but they can also be part of a longer tale shared by many.  So here we go, we are starting a year of letting go.  Feel free to join us, and let me know what you give away and to whom. Because I love a good story.

Crossing My Fingers

Please join me in hoping for a positive test for my IVF-blog pal Penny, as she goes in for her blood test today. 

I have never been a big fan of blogs solely focused on infertility.  Maybe it is that the issue is too close to my heart for me to read regularly about this particular pain, or maybe I just have not connected with the writing of other infertility bloggers. Penny's blog Incompl-te is an extraordinary exception.  Throughout her round of IVF, she has written clearly and with good humor about the milestones, emotions and small details that make up this process.  As crazy as it sounds, I have looked forward to her daily posts, which are written in a tongue-in-cheek "what to expect" style.


Penny, I wish you the best and have  my fingers crossed for a good outcome.  Whatever the results, know that I care about you and hope for many good things for you and your family. 

The real problem with IVF, part 2

Friday at the grocery store I ran into a friend of Chris's.  His mother recently died, after a brief battle with ALS (Lou Gerhig's Disease).  I had talked to this guy at the start of the summer, and offered some support based in my experience with this disease.  (My grandmother had it.)

I walked over to tell this man how sorry I am for his loss. We talked for a bit, and I found myself welling up. He (a man of good stoic Norwegian stock) remained calm, while I was close to sobbing. And I went over to console him.

Fucking hormones.

I think I am in love

Pirates AND ninjas, what could be wrong about that?

Absolutely Small puts these videos together using her little creations. Check out her youtube page for more videos. (and thanks to Craft Magazine's blog, where I found this.)

Ada, Chris and I are going with a friend to camp, eat pancakes and soak in hot springs.  Hope you have a great weekend too!

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

Sophie resides on a Greek island - an island like any other, where gnarled old ladies drop whatever they're doing in the olive grove and tunefully join in on nineteen-seventies Swedish pop songs.

Anthony Lane
Euro Visions

To Friendship

After a string of "I will" "we can't" "ok, maybe" "no, wait" emails were flung from my fingers to Mother-Woman's inbox, Chris and I finally committed to a pan-Cascadian trip to see this fine woman and her family.  Before I get into how great they are and what a wonderful visit it was,  I feel compelled to offer the following Public Service Announcement:

If you find yourself at the U.S.A./Canada border, and the very nice Canadian border guard asks, after taking possession of your family's passports, about the purpose of your visit, it is reasonable to answer: "We are visiting friends."

But, when that guard follows up with: "How do you know them?" it is perhaps not advisable to (honestly) declare that your wife met them on the internet.

Unless you want the guard to ask skeptically, "Have you met them before?" which you will be compelled to respond to in the negative.

"But I have known them for almost two years" you might chirp nervously.

At this point, you can not fault the guard for asking about the nature of your web site. Using all your powers of restraint, try not to use the word "blog," but simply respond that you discuss parenting issues and bathroom remodels. The guard might then decide that you are not heading up to Vancouver to sell your child to these "friends" and may allow you on your merry way with only a raised eyebrow and a laugh at the expense of those foolhearty Americans.

**            **            **

Now that we've got that out of the way, on to the gushing! I feel somewhat overwhelmed by how fun it was to visit Mother-Woman and her family. I am always a bit nervous right before anything new, and to be honest, the border guard's skepticism could have been well-founded. Not because we were likely to be housed by dangerous criminals, but because a virtual friendship can be very different from one based on real, in-person meetings. In this case, I should not have worried. Mo-Wo is lovely, charming, smart and fun. And cute, so cute. P-man, who shows a consistently curmudgeonly face to the internet, is actually a charming and funny guy.  Plus, he very kindly guided us to the house when I called from across town to say "help, I messed up the directions!"

But enough of those two.  The real charmers are their kids. Miss Fancy and the toddler I came to think of as Captain YES! are lovely, adorable children with way better table manners than my child on a good day. (Let's just say that only one child climbed under the table at dinner, and it was not either of Mo's.) They were so cute I wanted to eat them up. But that would probably have crossed some guest-host boundary.

Ada immediately took to both kids, enough that by bathtime of the first day she got in the tub and asked: "where are my girl and my boy?" Enough so that when I told her that all four parents would be going out, leaving her and the kids with people (okay, grandparents) she'd met only minutes before, who would feed, bathe and tuck her in, she was not at all phased. Enough so that on our post-return trip tricycle ride around the block, Ada declared her desire to be just like Miss Fancy. (Never mind that she meant she wanted the same kind of streamers on her trike, I later used it to further my potty-training agenda.)

Mo-wo and P-man are incredibly gracious and kind, they fed us well and made both excellent conversation and delicious coffee. Before the visit I worried about whether we would have enough to say to one another to make it through the weekend. Luckily I was wrong. We talked about kids, work, gardens, books, neighborhoods, politics, beluga whales and why the band Destroyer is crap. (Chris, who is reading this over my shoulder, notes that Destroyer only has one song, played repeatedly throughout the show we attended. And what was up with the people who were there to see Destroyer and LEFT after Neko Case came on?)

The girls (er, skate and hermit crab) building a fish-lodge at the Vancouver aquarium

A few months ago Metrodad asked his readers about how they viewed their internet relationships: were they as important to people as in-person friends? Even though I have a couple of good friends who I met through blogging, I have in-person relationships with them that are now more important to me than our blogs. These women live nearby, making it easy to get together regularly.

Mo-Wo and P-man are hours away, across an international border (though thankfully, no time zones). We probably will not see one another often, but this weekend makes me wish that were not the case. I want to be able to stop by for coffee and have them bring the kids over to barbecue. As wistful as it makes me feel that I can not pull these wonderful people into my everyday social life, I am thrilled that I have that wish. I only hope that they had a good time this weekend and are not now changing their phone numbers or planning a name change.

Oh, and speaking of hope, I very much hoping that Blogher does end up being in Portland next summer, if only because P-man has threatened to attend, tarted up in drag, no less.

Oh Sew Crazy

While I compose my thoughts about the fantastic weekend I had with Mother-Woman and her family, I will distract you with fabric:

A while back I posted on Did You Buy That New about my sewing. I am proud enough of this Lotus Dress that I wanted to paste the photos up here. Other than the usual caveats of a novice sewer, I am very happy with the result.

The Most Delicious Spam

Looking for a lost email, I found a number of good subject lines in my spam filter.  I see a pattern emerging:

Britney Spears' New Hair Extensions Are Lindsay Lohan's Pubes

Pope Benedict to Exorcise George Bush and Britney Spears on US Visit

Dalai Lama denies receiving fellatio from Britney Spears

Britney Spears shaken but unhurt after failed suicide bomber attack

Britney Spears Confession: 'I'm the Father of Anna Nicole Smith's Baby!'

 

 

Story Of My Life

Feedback on the report chapter I wrote:

This whole section needs to be edited and rewritten by someone who can write it for the average reader. It sounds too complicated and bureaucratic. It was obviously written with intelligence. It needs to be re-written for the common man.  

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

This obsession with “street-cred” reaches its apex of absurdity as hipsters have recently and wholeheartedly adopted the fixed-gear bike as the only acceptable form of transportation – only to have brakes installed on a piece of machinery that is defined by its lack thereof.

Douglas Haddow
Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization

Does this make up for not calling my parents on their anniversary?

About an hour after I whined about my fears of Lupron's side effects and not being excited for this round of IVF, my sister (who comments on my blog via email), sent me this note:

i just read your last post, and i want to try to comfort you with tales of similar things that i have done without lupron:

--gone to sfo when my flight was from oakland
--gone to oakland when my flight was from sfo
--told callers, "she's not here, but would you like to take a message?"
--forgotten my own sister's birthday, and called her about something else on that day
--gone all the way to berkeley to turn in forms that i'd left at home
--completely, i mean completely, forgot my ATM PIN, never to recall it again
--just yesterday, i called someone a birthday boy when it was not his birthday
--the day before that, as you know, i went to a cafe more than a mile away, without any money

all this to say, you're probably losing your mind, too, but it's probably not due to IVF.

Side Effects

I may in fact be losing my mind.

Yesterday I was working at home so that I could get to my weekly acupuncture appointment. (There is some evidence it can improve the success rate for IVF.) My computer dinged at me, reminding me to head to my appointment. I kept working on the document I wanted to get out before I left. That done, I hopped in the shower, pulled on some clothes and ran out the door.

Congratulating myself for being a few minutes early, I walked into the office. The very friendly secretary greeted me warmly, and said "we were expecting  you at 9."

WHAT? I looked down at my blackberry, and yes indeed, my appointment was for 9, not 10 am. What is wrong with me? Why did the 8:45 reminder not ring any bells? Fuck.

I started to cry, and the secretary tried to find me another appointment this week. No luck, my doctor is out on Friday and booked up today and tomorrow. FUCK. The loss of a single appointment is itself not a huge deal, I have a few more appointments scheduled before all this is done. But I was inconsolable. I could not help but flash to to something I read the other day that suggested Lupron use could be linked to memory loss and other problems. Not that I have noticed an increase in forgetfulness (and this stupidity is not exactly about memory), but it triggers for me a fear that all this hormone injecting and other doping could have long-term bad effects.

During Sunday dinner I told friends I was not feeling worried about the IVF not working, but that this meant I also was not feeling excited.  Some measure of anticipation feels required - some kind of mind over matter nonsense that I can't stop myself from thinking must be important. I am still not excited, but now I am scared. Not scared that it will not work, but scared that the process may scar me in some unanticipated and irretrievable way.

All this feels like a big response to a missed appointment. The reaction would have been there without this to trigger it; something else would have brought it up. Now I feel all jangly and out of sorts.

Stick It To 'Ya

Been in the car for too long?

Try some stickers

On your face

An hour after, a week before

I took my first lupron an hour ago. Already I have a little headache behind my nose. Not too strong, but charming none the less.

More charming is the conversation I had with Ada today. I told her that in about a week we are going to Canada to visit some friends. I told her about the daughter and son, about the mama and papa.

Ada: are we going now?

Me: in a few days.

Ada: after nap?

Me: more like in a week.

Ada: I want to see my friends now!

Mo and family, Ada is already excited for the visit. Now we just have to work on what "more than a week" means.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

When you operate like a South American dictator, it hurts inside, and that takes some of the fun out of it.

Helen Gurley Brown*
Sex and the Office 

*Thanks to Wendy of Glossed Over, who is posting advice from the legendary Cosmopolitan editor on her site every Wednesday.

Vacation, had to get away

This weekend I was at the coast with my in-laws. It started out well enough, but after a couple of days, I was irritable and prickly. I kept asking myself why - my in-laws are charming, and the extended family is fine too, better even, most of the time. And yet. Enough is enough.

After two full days I was tired of being with these people. Tired of all being together every moment, playing games and talking and and and. At this point most of you are saying "Wah, poor Nora who can't stand to be happy. Get yourself together." Well, except for Karen, who knows exactly what I am saying. But here is the thing - even when you care about people and enjoy their company, sometimes too much time with no break turns fun into torture. For me, two days was the breaking point.

Ada and her Grandpa (the fog, though lovely, did cut down on the 
amount of time we would normally have spent on the beach)

Even though I didn't entirely see this at the time, I felt it enough to take steps to disengage. Instead of playing a game with the rest of the group, I started a jigsaw puzzle. But Chris's family does not seem to feel this need for down time, and they kept trying to draw me in, inviting me to play games and participate in the group. Half-way through an excruciating game of Quiddler (trust me, do NOT play this game with more than four people or you will be bored to death) I started leaving the table between my turns. I started to have that crazed feeling that if I had to make idle banter any longer I might find a way to turn my cards into a deadly weapon. (It did not help that one card-player challenged with my assertion that the final sixth of Kavalier and Clay would have benefited from some good editing by saying: "but it won a Pulitzer!" as if that assured perfection. Then he admitted he hadn't actually read it himself. But it won a Pulitzer!)

The first of two puzzles I completed. Notice the missing piece (bastards).

During visits with my family, Chris takes a lot of time apart from us. I have noticed over the years that he needs down time when they are around, and I give him plenty of space. A typical day when my parents are in town involves some Ada-centered activity (which Chris does not attend), followed by nap-time lunch for the adults, and then another outing or neighborhood excursion (often without Chris). It is not uncommon for my parents to see Chris at breakfast and then not really interact with him until dinner. I do not necessarily need this kind of space, but this weekend made me realize that I do need a little more space than I have been giving myself. Next time we spend an extended stretch with the in-laws, I give myself permission to sneak off and read a book, take a walk or otherwise disappear for an hour or three. With Ada as the central focus of our family, they won't care if I wander off. If it improves my mood, I am sure they will even appreciate it.

Wow, Talk About Spacy

I just realized that I never selected a winner for the picnic code I was going to give away. Over a week ago. Ahem.

Ok, here goes. (Drumroll, please.)

The winner is Kaci! Congratulations, Kaci. Have fun Picniking!

When you get a minute, will you make me look less green in this picture? Thanks!

Chris and me on the St John's bridge, during this year's Bridgepedal

Special Delivery

This arrived today:

Yes folks, that is a $4,500 package. It showed up this morning, and I stowed the various vials and containers in the fridge and on counters. Now that Ada can open the refrigerator I am a bit more cautious about where I put those meds.

Turns out I had mis-calculated the cycle dates when I was estimating on my own, which means that we CAN go to Canada for Labor Day. (Or should I type Labour Day?) Yay for us! Hopefully the Lupron headache will be controllable this time. It helps when I identify that it is a Lupron headache and don't fruitlessly try to medicate with ever more caffeine.

In other health care news, the Onion Radio News has a good piece up: Republican Enjoys Paying Huge Health Insurance Premiums. Saying I got this from one of my bosses does not violate my "don't blog about work" rule, I suppose.

In case you think you might need your eyes checked, see this first. (found at design for mankind)

And now for mental health: I am off to the beach with Chris' family. No doubt to get my ass kicked in Settlers of Catan. But I'm the king of Boggle. See you next week.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

To some extent the hostility is a byproduct not only of the abdication of common sense, but of widespread ignorance of state and local laws.

Jan Hoffman
Moving Targets

That's a lot of poop talk from a kid who refuses to use the potty

Ada told herself a story that ended with "and the poo poo came out of her head."

Turning to me, she asked: Isn't that a funny story?

Me: It's not my favorite kind of story.

Ada, exasperated that I did not get the joke: But there's poo poo . . . coming out of her HEAD!

Ada, talking to herself again: That's a poo poo head story. Mama didn't like it. She likes a pee pee story. I like a poo poo story and Mama likes pee pee.

Why didn't we do this before?

After several years of chatting with neighbors about having a block party, two of us finally arranged one. We got permits, official city-approved barricades, food and an honest-to-goodness bouncy house.  The bouncy house was borrowed from a neighbor's suburban friends, but now that we've had one I am not sure you can have a block party without a bouncy house.

Or without goats, for that matter. One of our neighbor owns a pair of pygmy goats, and nothing says "Portland Block Party" like goats on leashes. To be fair, the goats are very well behaved, leash trained and only tried to eat my plants a couple of times. Plus, they are cute.

The jazz musicians who live on the cross-street moved their practice session onto the porch so that we all could enjoy their music. Meat was grilled, children got pumped up on sugar and ran around until their tongues lolled out of their heads, and I met neighbors I have never seen before.

No one called the cops, but a local conifer did stop by to urge us to plant trees this winter. So I'd call it a win all around. We'll be doing it again next year. Maybe next time with a parade.

One of my neighbors, making nice with a local conifer. 

Ada and a friend hang out in the living room set up on the street, 

complete with couch, rug and lamp.

A friendship, full of mystery and hope

A package arrived today from my friend Jane.

Before June, I hadn't seen Jane in five years. We talk periodically, but like many people who live thousands of miles apart, our lives are not as intertwined as those who who see each other regularly. Despite this, I think of Jane regularly and warmly. When I lived in Rhode Island, Jane was a friend, boss and mentor. She is one of those people who never reminds you how much more they know or suggests that you are in any way not completely compelling. Even when I have not talked to her for months I routinely see a movie or read a book and think immediately that I need to share it with Jane.

In the five years since I moved back to the west coast, Jane has sent me several thoughtful gifts. One of my favorites is an oversize shopping bag made of red floral oilcloth. She has also sent me more sentimental gifts, including the milagros that sit on my personal shrine. Somehow her gifts and notes seem perfectly timed. Today, the day I got my plan for my 4th round of invitro fertilization, a package arrived from Jane. This gift was exactly what I needed, as the official start of another attempt at pregnancy was more emotionally charged than I had expected.

 

Inside the mailer was a small box, tarted up with sparkles, fabric roses and what looks for all the world like red fishnet stockings. The box was filled with the sweetest of hand-picked treasures, each one perfect and beautiful. Jane's gift made me cry with the happiness of someone so well loved by her friends. Ada helped me open the gift. With the seriousness of a 3 year old, she picked up and examined each item. She did not understand the meaning of the gift, but as a collector and appreciator of all manner of small objects, she knew its value.

In her card, Jane wrote that she made the box, "full of mystery and hope", for my embryos. She quoted a Salvatore Quasimodo poem that had made her think of my embryos:

everyone stands alone
on the heart of the earth
transfixed by a sun-ray
and suddenly its evening

She signs off by writing: So here's to their life, whatever that may be. With much love, Jane.

I love Jane for so many reasons. Today, because she is such a kind and thoughtful friend. Her note introduced me to a new poet. And even if she did not know it, her timing was perfect. The box is a reminder of how lucky I am to have such wonderful people in my life, people who care for me and love me no matter what our circumstances. The box may be aimed at my ovaries, but it also points at my heart. Seeing it will help me focus on the mystery and hope in my life, any help with that is an amazing gift.

Thank you, Jane.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

He's a middle-aged man wearing sweats and a top hat of green balloons, a rubber crown of garden hoses, on a sweltering Saturday in downtown Portland.

Jessica Machado
Keeping it Weird (Downtown)

Did You Buy That New?

A few weeks ago I hinted that Debbie was all fired up about an idea for a new blog. Well, spitfire that she is, Debbie got the blog up and running.

Before I tell you about the site, first a story to explain how I got involved with it: in high school, I wore clothes designed to make me blend into the background. My college roommate turned me on to thrift shops and vintage clothing. Home on vacatiions, I proudly wore my oversized 50s dresses and 30s heels. My mom, who loves a good sale and rarely buys clothes at full price, was not impressed by my thrifty finds. Her usual response to my polka dot dresses and threadbare coats was: did you buy that new?

This question became a running family joke, applied to all manner of clothes purchased over the years. When Debbie told me she was planning a blog about incorporating thrifted, vintage and repurposed clothing into everyday fashion, I insisted that she use the phrase to title her blog.

Did you buy that new? is part how to, part show-and-tell, part eco-fabulous lifestyle blog.

Debbie and the other contributors are a bunch of fabulous women whose closets I will raid just as soon as I can convince them to tell me their addresses. I will be contributing as well, hopefully offering ideas for ways you can wear used clothes without your mother asking if you've become homeless.

Please check it out. It's your new guilty pleasure, without the guilt.

Coffee, tea, or . . . barium milk?

Ada: Here is some puta hutu banana lemonade.

Me (after deciding not to get into why puta might not be a good thing to drink): Delicious.

Ada: This is barium milk.

Me: Yum.

Ada: Coffee? But it is bad for you.

Me: What? Coffee is?

Ada: Yes, BAD for you.


Later, after feeding her rubber ducky some barium, Ada allowed as how barium tastes bad. Maybe because it was cut with bath water? 

Beach Photos (or) If one picture is good, three are better

As long as I have you thinking about photographs, I wanted to mention that the nice people at Picnik* handed me a code for a free year of its Premium service. If you want it, leave me a comment on this post by Friday, August 8 (let's say, 5pm pacific time), and I will randomly select a winner. Be sure to include an email or web site, so I can get in touch with you if you win.

*Ok, I don't actually know them, so I can't really vouch for their interpersonal skills. But they did give me this code, and I do use Picnik myself (and like it), so there you go.

The three best things I read this week

Magpie Musing on marriage and equality for all.

Julie Pippert, arguing that the fact that she cares about her hair does not mean she does not also think deeply.

Thailand Chani, sharing her life in order to increase our understanding of the nuance behind a stereotyped group.



Thank you all for producing such thoughtful and heartfelt writing.

Photo Faves: The Man I Love

There are so many things to love about Chris: his good humor, his cooking, his brains, his active and thoughtful parenting of our daughter. He's also beautiful.

As you can see in this picture, Chris has what he calls his grandfather's legacy - his big eyebrows. Hair stylists always want to trim them for him, but I am glad he resists them. I love his eyebrows. I love him.

Happy 9th wedding anniversary, Chris. You are still my favorite.

The real problem with IVF

It is not the cost. We are lucky enough to have the financial support of my family. Without that, we would have long ago been done with this process and settled for good into our three person family.

It is not the pain. I have a higher threshold for pain than I would have thought. Even though the progesterone shots have arguably gotten harder over time as my backside has increasingly given itself over to scar tissue, they are bearable and never hurt for long.

It isn't the possibility that it will not work. Though I reserve the right to wail and gnash my teeth should the need arise, I am coming to terms with the fact that I may not have another child. 

It is the fucking scheduling. After our most recent round I wanted to go again as soon as possible. However, my travel schedule was going to be a problem. In late June I was scheduled to fly to Boston for a conference. I really wanted to go and did not want a maybe-event to keep me home. I put off the next cycle for a month. When my period started I consulted the calendar and found that starting the process would mean cancelling my plans for San Francisco and interrupting my vacation at the beach with several early morning drives to visit my Portland doctor. So again I put it off.

Now I am waiting for the go-ahead to start again. Once I start bleeding I can begin the two weeks of birth control pills, followed by a couple of weeks of follicle stimulating drugs and the paired joys of egg retrieval and embryo transfer.

So what's the problem? The timing. One of my favorite bloggers invited my family up to see hers on Labor Day weekend. (and to hear Neko Case perform, one of our shared enthusiasms) Once again, I am looking at the calendar. A month from now looks like exactly when I can't be away.  Crap.

I have put off this round of IVF twice. I can not wait any longer. I hope Mother-Woman and her family will forgive my indecisive rambling and back and forth emails (I'd love to visit, I don't know if I can come, yes we'll be there! No wait…).  Somehow I think they will. In any case, the bug is in my ear, and I will see them soon. If the IVF works, I will know I made the right decision. If it fails? Probably still the right decision, but it will sting a little more.

Thanks for your patience, Mo. You are welcome here any time.

Random Quote and Unrelated Photo of the Week

We're like The View on Clomid.

Lori of Weebles Wobblog...
Talking about the make-up of the Blogher panel on Adoption, Infertility and Loss

Dear Friends

To friends old and new, I am sorry if I neglected you this week. The cards of those I met at Blogher are burning a hole in my pocket.  I have been at the beach with limited internet access (or interest).  I will be making the rounds soon, to say hello and check in on your varied, fascinating lives.

Until then, proof that I really was away:

Walking In A Stranger's iPod

What was that saying about knowing someone only after you have walked a mile in her shoes? Well today I listened to a stranger's ipod, but I am still not sure who he is, other than a fan of rap music.

And of Steve Winwood.

What would you do with a found iPod? I went right for the "25 most played" playlist. Something is wrong with the screen (hey, it was dropped at least once, right?). Only the bottom-left corner of the screen works. I can read the first word or two of the song titles, but nothing else. After a half-hour of assorted (and to my ear, second rate) rap, all of a sudden a fast-paced remix of "Call On Me" comes on. A quick search turned up the name Eric Prydz as the artist. And then, as quickly as it came on, it was replaced by more nameless hip hop.

Truthfully, it was a little disappointing, this iPod full of music that means nothing to me. I like rap, but it is not so good as office music, especially while I finish up edits on a report eight months in the making. When I saw the iPod lying in the street, I hoped that I would be transported into someone else's world by the music I found on it. Well, first I hoped that no cars ran over it before the light changed. But then I hoped to get a musical ride. Mostly I was bored by what I found, though maybe I will dig a little deeper to see what else is on this guy's playlist.

No doubt if the tables were turned, and this unknown rap fan found my nano, he'd be equally confused by my choices. Bon Iver? Neko Case? What the fuck? Natalie Portman's Shaved Head? I wonder if he'd turn the iPod over and see that it has "Nonlinear Girl" engraved on the back? (Chris ordered it for me when we got the new computer.) Maybe he'd google the name, and find me. He'd comment on a random quote post and we'd forge a lasting bond between people who frequent the corner of 12th and State. I would give him his iPod and take mine back. We'd laugh at our good luck and shake our heads at the other's taste.Or not. I feel bad that I can't return the iPod to this guy. Even if he knows where he lost it, what is the point of putting it back there now? Anyone need a half-broken iPod? Free to a good home.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

She strode past me on those mile-long legs, her sensible nun shoes making a hollow klopf-klopf, the sound of Joy itself agreeing to some pragmatic temporary restraint.

George Saunders

Hypocrites

When I left the hotel

Camp Blogher

At one am, one of my roommates was sure she was done with blogging, the other was hatching plans for a new venture. I was still reeling from the conference, trying to decide what to make of it.

Debbie called Blogher the blog prom. To me the two days felt something more like summer camp. As kids, Karen and I both went to sleep away camp. When I talk to other people who had been “camp” kids, I hear the same stories about the experience, whether it was a camp organized around kayaking, one run by the girl scouts or for Jewish youth. It is an intense experience; days feel like weeks, and weeks contain years. Friendships are forged, feelings are hurt, dramas rage, are discussed, analyzed and forgotten in the face of new dramas. Sleep is forgone, nerves fray, people declare themselves and remake themselves daily.

 

Gwen and her favorite blogger enjoy a SF cab ride

As with camp, I enjoyed it and hated it in equal measure. In the session on infertility, adoption and loss, I listened to women speak and felt in synch with them. Over the course of the weekend I met several women who I genuinely enjoyed getting to know, with whom I want to continue friendships across time and space.

I also felt confused and a bit put off by the structure of the event. As a blogger with a small readership, I am not expecting to monetize my blog, I do not hope to get a book deal or even a paid writing gig. I did not need to network in the way that people do when their business is at stake, when working the room can affect their careers.

my old bunk was never this swank

At lunch on Thursday, Karen asked what I wanted out of the weekend. I could not really answer. Sitting in the airport waiting for a delayed plane, I still don’t know. As with camp, I leave exhausted and overstimulated. Unlike those years that I came home from camp with a pile of dirty clothes and a slight sunburn, unpacking is not accompanied by an immediate nostalgia for the days past and a hopeful excitement for next year.

But maybe that's just because I am no longer 14. 

Feeling much better now, thanks.

I didn't realize how emotionally exhausting this whole Blogher thing was going to be. Just now, crying and lying curled up on the bed, I got it.

Being outgoing and friendly all day? Hard.

Asking questions and being trying to be funny all day? Tiring.

Approaching people you know only online and who you aren't sure will recognize you? Forcing yourself to repeatedly overcome the urge to hide in the handicapped stall? Listening to people read and knowing your writing is never going to be that funny/beautiful/poignant? Fucking exhausting.

(Wah, cry me a river, right?)

Oh, and Chris? I told Liz that she is your favorite mommy blogger. I hope that's okay. She said something about kissing you. I told her she could be on your list, after Neko Case.

Live Blogging: Mommyblogging and Privacy

I am in the Blogher session on public parenting and privacy. Hearing these stories I started to wonder if I should worry more. I have a fairly small readership, and I know many of them (more of them as of today). BUT. I can not know everyone who is reading.

The speakers (and audience) are talking about not using their kids' names and not using pictures of their children on their blogs. I am not sure how I'd do this. A couple of years ago I considered switching from names to psuedonyms, but in the end kept referring to my family by their names. Some of my favorite pictures of Ada are closeups; I am not sure I am ready to give up showing those.

I have limits - I do not share my last name online. I don't write about certain things. The moderator says it is  about balance.  This is very comforting to me. I think we all need to do what feels right, while being clear-eyed about what we share. Beyond those with extreme stranger fear (legitimate or not), I am hearing good advice about thinking before writing, and abut considering the impact on myself and those I write about.

A Sign She May Not Win Miss Congeniality

The other night after her bath, I was helping Ada brush her teeth.  While I had control of the toothbrush, she farted. Before I knew what was happening, she put her hand to her bottom and the raised it to my face, offering up the scent of her fart. 

I pulled away, and laughing asked her where she had learned that. Between peals of laughter she told me that no one had taught her, she just did it. After she was done laughing (this took a few minutes) Ada tried to raise her hand to my face again.  I told her not to do it. 

Ada: Why?

Me: Because I don't want to smell your stinky farts. 

Ada, after pausing to consider this: Maybe Papa will!

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week

If my having an orgasm saved a whale or stopped global warming, then I'd have a decent shot.

David Bar Katz
Philip Roth In Khartoum

Is there an Allbottom list?*

When I was thinking of that title, it sounded much more innocent than it looks now that I have typed it. Unintended implications of sexual proclivities aside, I think there should be some website for the rest of us, perhaps a badge. ("Alltop doesn't know I exist") I'd make one if I wasn't so busy worrying about what to wear to Blogher. I know, it should not matter what I look like, but you prepare to spend three days with 1,000 women and not doubt your wardrobe or haircut. Despite her self-proclaimed tendency to obsess, Debbie kindly talked me off an "I've got nothing to wear" ledge yesterday afternoon. I felt a bit better, but then I read that she planned on doing it up herself next week, sartorially speaking. Great, a roommate of charm and sophistication, dressed to the nines. No pressure there. (Maybe she can make up for this gaffe by making me an Allbottom.com shirt. I'll wear it out on the town; maybe Guy Kawasaki will take pity on me and start such a site.)

Luckily my kind neighbor offered some help. She loaned me a wrap, perfect for the frozen wasteland that is a hotel conference room. (and a July day in San Francisco) When in a fashion crisis, it is always good to wear someone else's clothes. Thank goodness for her, because looking around at my closest friends I see women who are vastly different shapes and sizes from me, which is to say NO HELP AT ALL in the clothes borrowing department.  Which will not stop me from running upstairs during Monkey Boy's birthday party to rifle through Ellen's things. A 5'9" woman can wear her 5'2" friend's clothes, right?  Maybe not the jeans, but I'm sure there is something in her closet I can use.  That way, if it looks terrible I can blame it on Ellen.  Win-win, as I see it.

After the last of my three attempts to find something to wear at blogher, I left the store with purple footless tights.  Which helps me how? Not at all, but does make me feel 14 again.  I take that back; the 14 year old me would never have worn bright purple, or anything else that called attention to the fact that I had a body.  Now I am so desperate for something new that I resort to tights that are tantamount to holding a sign over my head.  One that reads "I have no taste and no time to shop; be my friend!"  Yeah, that'll work. Maybe I should just have gotten the sign.


*I debated whether to use this subject line.  My experience with seemingly innocent titles that generate traffic from porn-seekers (I s*** my****, for example) makes me wary. But apparently not wary enough to think of a better title.



Edited to add: HRH pointed me to allmediocre.com, which has apparently beaten me to the punch on this.