waiting room

I sat in the waiting room at the fertility clinic for 50 minutes on Saturday. Fifty whole minutes. I was getting annoyed. Maybe I'm crazy, but there's a weird vibe in fertility clinic waiting rooms. When you sit in a regular doctor's waiting room, the people around you are there for all kinds of boring reasons - sore throat, ear infection, ingrown toenail...but at the fertility clinic, we're all there for the same exact reason. We want a baby. Really, really bad.

I try so hard not to stare at the people sitting near me, but I can't help it.

There is a woman in scrubs. She is my age and has a kind face. There's no way she's infertile, I think. She looks way too normal.

There's a really tall guy sitting behind me. His wife shows up and they talk quietly together. I want to give them some privacy, but I also kind of (okay, more than kind of) want to hear what they're saying. Are they doing IVF? Is it her issue or is it male factor infertility? Maybe both? How is their relationship holding up under this stress?

Another woman walks through the door, checks in and sits nearby. She leaves her coat on. She looks tired. I wonder how long she's been at this, how many cycles she's done, what meds she's tried, whether she's miscarried.

This happens to me every time I go to the clinic. Give me more than thirty seconds in that waiting room and I get this urge to start talking to the people around me. I want to ask the woman in scrubs how her treatments are going. I want to ask her if she has PCOS, endometriosis or low ovarian reserve. I want to ask about her husband's sperm count and whether they have any friends who have been down this road. I want to ask if they've considered IVF, whether they've gotten second opinions. I want to ask about their insurance coverage and how she's doing with all of this. Like really, how are you doing?

And I want her to ask me.

I want it to be a conversation. I want us to sit next to each other and laugh about the crazy places our men have given us shots and all of those birth control pills we religiously took way back when. I want the tired girl with the coat to hear us and move to where we're sitting, join in with a story about a pregnancy test she was sure was going to be positive...and wasn't. I want to put my hand on hers and tell her I'll say a prayer for her every time she comes to mind. I want to stand up when the nurse calls my name, turn back toward them and smile as I walk away. I want to say, "Nice talking with you."

But none of that happens. We just sit there - on our phones, in our magazines, sinking deeper into the collars of our shirts. We keep our mouths shut because we've heard of HIPAA and there's that sign ten feet from the front desk telling us to stand back to protect each other's privacy.

For some reason, all of this reminds me of this one time when I ran a marathon. The first thirteen miles were a breeze. Thousands of people lined the streets, cheering for us til their throats were sore. The spectators' roar mingled with my adrenaline to create the sensation that my feet were barely even hitting pavement. It was like I was floating. But then mile fourteen hit. It got really hard. The crowds lessened a bit. The day got hot. And I wanted more than anything to give up.

But there was this lady.

Her race badge said she was in the 70-75 age category and she ran with a limp, almost like she'd had a stroke. She passed me, and as she did, she spoke a word of encouragement that kept my feet moving. I passed her later on and made sure I returned the favor - just a "you go girl!" or "you're doing great!" to lift the spirits of a fellow runner. She passed me again. And again, she used a bit of that precious, fleeting energy to keep me going.

She wasn't the only one. There was a middle-aged guy, a couple of teenage girls, a group of moms. All of us runners were finding the strength to look past our own journey and speak words of encouragement to those who were struggling beside us. This is the reason I ran that marathon. It wasn't just some crazy idea or something I wanted to check off my bucket list. Looking back, I know I was supposed to run that race so that I could feel that camaraderie...with total strangers.

And maybe this fertility stuff is kind of like a marathon. We're all running the same race with the same finish line. Some are young. Some are older. Some run with partners. And some run alone. Some run a little more smoothly and others really struggle. For some of us, it's our first race. And some of us know what it's like to cross that finish line. It can be exciting at first, even fun.

But then we hit mile fourteen. Maybe it's the realization that the money we set aside for treatments is running out. Maybe it's the third miscarriage, the eighth negative pregnancy test, the second canceled IVF cycle. And when we hit mile fourteen, we need more than we can offer ourselves. We need that 70-year-old lady. We need each other.

We're running the same race, with the same goal in sight, just an arm's reach from one another, but we're still really lonely.

So maybe someday, I'll do it. I might just speak up, take the risk.


"What are you in for?" I'll say to a woman in skinny jeans, clutching her insurance card. Maybe she'll be offended. Maybe she'll tell me it's none of my business.

Or maybe she'll take a deep breath and talk about it...actually talk about it. Maybe for the first time. Maybe she...maybe we...won't feel so lonely in that fertility clinic waiting room. Maybe I can be her lady with the limp. Maybe she can be mine.

And maybe someday, we won't really care how long it takes for the nurse to call our names.

let's get it started

We're headed back into the land of ifs and maybes...infertility treatments. Earlier this week, I had some blood work done at the clinic. The next day, a nurse called to tell me that I'm not pregnant and I have not ovulated.

WHAT!?!?!?!

Totally kidding.

They started me on a drug called Provera to force a period. Provera and I go way back. I've had less than ten periods in my whole life. Usually when I tell people that, they say something about how lucky I am. And they're right. No mood swings. No bloating. No cramps. No desperately digging through my purse for supplies. I'm a lucky woman...until I try to get pregnant. Not so lucky then. No period means no ovulation. No ovulation means no baby. So Provera comes to my rescue by making my body do what it can't do on its own. I'm supposed to call the clinic on the first day of my period...and I can't remember what happens after that.

It's odd. I feel like a newbie even though I've done this so many times before. I used to be able to talk shop with the best of them. But I just don't remember that stuff anymore. It feels like ages ago, like I was a different person back then, living a different life. In a lot of ways, I was.

It's exciting to be starting again. And scary.

This time around, it's going to be different. We have a child now, which on the one hand, will make things SO much easier. When I start to wonder if it's ever going to work, I can remind myself that it already has. When a pregnancy test comes back negative, I can hold my daughter close. My please God prayers will be tempered by prayers of thankfulness for what we've already been given. My daughter's presence will be the sweetener in this bitter process.

But on the other hand, having a child and working towards another will create some challenges. Children are not allowed at the fertility clinic. I am so glad for this rule and am more than happy to abide by it. I remember sitting in the waiting room during our IVF cycle and seeing a family come in with two little ones in tow. I was livid. Of all the rules to break!! So again, I'm a fan of the rule, but it does mean that we will need child care or at least rather creative scheduling every time I have an appointment. That means inconveniencing others and being away from Harriet more than I'd like.

Also, we now know what it's like to feel a baby move, to introduce that child by name to its tearful grandparents, to sing lullabies in the stillness, to provide comfort during sickness, to laugh at the silly faces, to celebrate the first steps. If our next baby does not come soon, we will know what we are missing. We will be fully aware of the specific, unparalleled joy that's being withheld. I have said many times that if I would have known how wonderful Harriet was going to be, I never would have been able to wait. Now I know, and I may still have to wait. This could be tough.

So here we go again...

lullaby and goodnight

Like most women, I didn't sleep well during pregnancy. My nose was always stuffy. I couldn't get comfortable. And I had to pee every couple hours. This pregnancy pillow helped me a lot. I don't think it helped Andrew very much, but he was okay with it.

Fast forward to the end of my pregnancy...contractions started in the middle of the night, stealing precious hours of sleep. Harriet was born at 4:19 in the morning, so I obviously didn't sleep that night either. We had originally planned to keep Harriet with us continually during our time at the hospital, but we were exhausted and the nurses kindly took her for a couple hours here and there so we could rest. And so it began...

No one expects to get much sleep during the first few months of their child's life, and neither did we. Harriet slept in a cosleeper next to our bed which I loved because I heard her cries immediately and was able to nurse her in bed. It also allowed me to check on her several times an hour (you think I'm joking) to make sure she was breathing. Pregnancy had been scary but now that my child was here and I had fallen in love with her, I was terrified of losing her. Several times during those first six months, I walked around our house, praying a shield of protection against SIDS over this space. Between the anxiety, the frequent nursings, and those squeaky little grunts newborns make, we didn't sleep much. Again, that's pretty normal. But there were times in those first couple months when she'd go sixteen hours without sleeping at all. That's not so normal for a newborn.

I started wondering if we had a challenging sleeper on our hands when she was about four months old. It just seemed to take forever to get her down. And she woke so often. She would sleep if she was nursing or being held, but if she was set down somewhere, she had trouble. There were plenty of times when I would be nursing her and stand up, walk over to her cosleeper and lay her down without unlatching her. I would balance precariously with one knee on the bed and my elbows on the desk, allowing her to continue to nurse until I very slowly unlatched her and eased myself into bed. During one of these scenarios, she started to cry when I unlatched her, so I put my face right down by hers and shhhhhed to try to get her to fall back asleep. She latched onto my bottom lip. I was so desperate for sleep that I just froze, afraid that she'd wake if I pulled away. It hurt like crazy! She gave me a fat lip...and woke up an hour later.

We moved her into her own room when she was six months old. It's a lovely nursery, my favorite room in the house. I would love to sleep in there.

Andrew was a big proponent of moving her to her own room, but the night that we actually made the switch, I gingerly laid her in the crib and then brought him upstairs to see how tiny and precious she looked. "Take her out of there!" he said, "She's way too little! It's so sad and tomorrow is your birthday. Do it a different day!" But we stayed strong and left her room, leaving Murphy behind to watch over her. He stayed in the nursery with her at night for a couple months, her guardian brother dog. 

People often asked us if she was sleeping through the night yet. "She's working on it," we would say. We just assumed she'd eventually figure it out. But month after month went by with very little progress. Now she's thirteen months old and she still sleeps like a newborn.

We have tried white noise. We've tried white noise plus one fan. White noise plus two fans. No white noise. Just the fans. Complete darkness. A nightlight. We've tried her door open and closed. We've tried having her sleep in our bed. We've leaned a vibrating baby seat up against the crib. We've put a vibrating chair massager under her crib mattress. We've slept on her floor. We've patted her back, sang to her, bounced her, walked her, brought her into our bed. We've tried tylenol, teething rings and two kinds of teething ointment. We've turned the thermostat up and and we've turned it down. We've dressed her in different types of clothing. We've put a sippy cup, a blanket, and a stuffed animal in her crib. We've let grandparents try. We've changed up her diet. We've changed up my diet. We weaned her completely. We watch for her tired signs and try to put her down at the perfect moment. We've taken her to two pediatricians and a chiropractor. We've gotten two different prescriptions for acid reflux. We wear her out with playing and fresh air. We've kept multiple sleep logs and journals. And we let her cry it out.

Crying it out is a controversial topic. I won't go into that here, but I will say that our research (and our hearts) told us that it wasn't the right choice for our family. But when everything else had failed us and Andrew was working a long stretch of nights, I felt I had no choice. So for two or three weeks, I let her cry it out. I would go in at increasing intervals and check on her, lay her back down, pat her back a bit, and remind her that she was okay. But she would not be soothed, let alone soothe herself. During that period of time, only once did she actually cry herself to sleep.  I was sort of shocked when she stopped crying, so I went in to check on her. She was asleep standing up with her arms and head resting on the crib rail. She had vomited and pooped. This wasn't the first time she had puked or filled her diaper while crying it out, but it was the last. This technique works for lots of families, but it didn't work for us. We were done.

I posted on Facebook about Harriet's sleep a couple weeks ago, asking for prayer. That night, she slept eleven hours straight. The next night was great as well. Since then, we've had good nights here and there (waking only once or twice) with plenty of ugly nights in between (waking three to six times).

Harriet's naps have always been a struggle too. She usually gets two half-hour naps. Some days she only gets one. We always try for two naps, but they often fail completely. We used to drive her around during her naps sometimes but there were plenty of times when I'd drive for forty-five minutes before she'd doze off, and then I'd pull into a parking lot and she'd wake immediately. It's not uncommon for us to try to get her down for a nap for an hour, only to have her sleep less than ten minutes.

As you can probably tell, this has been quite a struggle for us. I have resisted blogging about it until now for two reasons. First, focusing on it makes me feel so discouraged. Second, I feel really sensitive about this topic. In some ways, I feel like a complete failure in this area. I feel like getting a baby to sleep should be a simple thing, but I can't do it. No matter how hard I try, I lose this battle. Everyone has ideas about what we're doing wrong. The vast majority of these ideas are shared lovingly and with compassion. Please keep them coming. I'm not asking that you stop trying to help us. But it's still tough to be so stumped. I feel like people (some people, not everyone) must blame me for Harriet's sleep issues. I hear the voices...

"If they had only..."
"They never should have..."
"If it were me..."

It's hard not to internalize it. It's hard to feel good about myself as a mom when my daughter is so exhausted that clipping her fingernails upsets her to the point of gagging. It's embarrassing to take Harriet to someone's house and have to leave prematurely so that we can drive her around during her nap.

I cannot imagine a life where you don't dread nighttime, where you put your baby to bed and then snuggle up on the couch with your husband to watch Downton Abbey and have a bowl of ice cream. When Harriet goes to bed, we don't do anything. We don't even flush the toilets for fear of waking her. We share about our days in whispered tones and then we go to bed...at 8:00 or 9:00 because we will be up again in just a few hours.

Like I've mentioned before, my anxiety has taken this issue and run with it. I often lie awake at night, just waiting for her to wake up. My heart beats so fast and with such force that falling asleep is totally out of the question. This lack of sleep has caused my hair to fall out, my skin to break out and my weight to yoyo. It has affected my ability to process information quickly, to make decisions and to think rationally. It has caused my emotions to run amuck. It has tricked Andrew and I into thinking that we are on opposing teams. It has caused me to question whether prayer really works.

Things could be worse. They could be much, much, much worse. This is a thorn in our side. It could be a dagger, but it's not. It's just a thorn. But we feel the thorn's prick all day long and it affects everything we do. I am not complaining. It sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not. Last night, after Andrew had fought the good fight for fifty minutes, I took over. As I rhythmically patted her back and sang to her, I smiled and I felt at peace. God has given me this girl. I cannot imagine a better life than the one I have. And there are moments when wisdom overcomes exhaustion and I realize that Harriet's lack of sleep means I get more moments with her than a lot of parents get with their kids. It doesn't matter so much that those moments are at 4:00 in the morning. So I keep patting her back, shhing her gently, and singing...

I cast all my cares upon You. 
I lay all of my burdens down at Your feet. 
And any time...I don't know...what to do...
I cast all my cares upon You. 

I really, really don't know what to do. Some days are really good. And other days, I feel like I'm unraveling. Harriet had an MRI last Monday. It was originally ordered because her head was growing too big too fast for the doctor's liking, but the sleep clinic said that they would also be very interested in the results. The imaging showed everything to be normal. We are so grateful for good results. We have a consult with a sleep specialist on February 1st. I will keep you updated. We have a great team already. Harriet's grandparents have been wonderful about coming over some mornings so that Andrew and I can sleep in. My mother-in-law answered my tearful phone call a couple weeks ago at 6:00 in the morning and came straight over. We are so glad that we'll now be adding doctors to our team.

Thanks to all of you who have joined our team by praying for us. We are so very grateful. I am no longer able to pray that Harriet will sleep, that she will have a good night, that this problem will be solved. I just can't bring myself to say those words. I am instead praying that God will allow us to retain our strength and uphold our joy no matter how long this struggle lasts.

to do list

A few years ago, I was reading every infertility book I could get my hands on. I scoured websites looking for tips and tricks. I figured there had to be some magical secret that would bring me a baby. I'm a list person, so I created a Word document and started to compile suggestions from eastern medicine, western medicine, and other women who had been there. Some of these are specific to my condition, polycystic ovarian syndrome. I want to remind everyone that I'm not a medical professional. I am not suggesting you should do any of these. Neither am I discouraging you from trying them. This post is purely for entertainment. Here goes...


1. Eat two tablespoons of cinnamon per day to lower blood sugar. I literally bought three giant containers of cinnamon at Costco and scooped heaping tablespoons into my mouth. More than once, the way-too-strong taste overcame me and I coughed, creating a reddish brown cloud that covered everything around me in a layer of cinnamon and spit. It was so, so, so gross. But I did it. Then one day my acupuncturist told me that only a specific type of cinnamon lowers blood sugar. Not the Costco kind...dang.

2. No multitasking. I was never very successful with this one. As I write this, I am eating a cookie and doing squats...yeah, I know.

3. Think positively - picture yourself being pregnant, tell yourself that you are looking forward to being pregnant in the next few months, etc. This one was way too painful. It felt like I was playing a mean joke on myself. I totally understand why it would be valuable and I hope to do it the next time around, but a couple years ago, thinking positively was beyond my scope.


4. Get regular acupuncture. I have always struggled with needles, but getting stuck at least once/week (sometimes as many as 15 times/week) during treatment cycles can cure you of that pretty quickly. I had seen an acupuncturist once before for reasons unrelated to fertility. It was actually a pretty pleasant experience. She put about four needles in my hands and feet and let me lie there for about a half hour, listening to Enya or something like that. But this time around, a friend recommended her acupuncturist, so I thought I'd give him a try.

He is the sweetest, most gentle, fatherly man. I always felt very comforted by him emotionally but no one has ever put me through more physical discomfort than this guy. He is serious about his needling. Once or twice per week, I visited his serene clinic with the lovely music and calming lighting, where he proceeded to treat me like a voodoo doll. "How deep are you sticking those needles?" I asked through gritted teeth as he jabbed me in the stomach and hips. "About an inch and a half," he said calmly. Sometimes he would stick me with thirty-something needles in a session. Other times, he would pick this dreaded spot on my shin that hurt like crazy...and twist the needle...way too many times. He often shook burning herbs around me, leaving me smelling like I'd been hanging out with Snoop Dogg and Justin Bieber. Even worse were the times he hooked the needles up to mini jumper cables that were plugged into an electrical box. They sent small (his word, not mine) electric surges into the needles that made my face and hands twitch with every pulse even though the needles were in my legs and feet.

Thankfully, he talked non-stop about his life story, his family, something he heard on NPR...all of this helped distract me. He was way too smart for me and I constantly lied when he asked if I had heard of this historical figure or that jazz musician. His wife was usually at the clinic and he would often give her awkward tasks like massaging my stomach or arranging the towel just right to give me privacy. And despite the pain, the long commute to the clinic, the awkward moments when the towel slipped, the financial cost, and the many stories that were way over my head, I always felt genuinely liked and cared for by this couple. One day, during an especially low time, I asked my acupuncturist if there was a point he could needle for hope. "We'll see what we can do," he said. I'm pretty sure he was making it up as he went, but I think it worked. And several weeks later, I was pregnant.

5. Do a full-body herbal cleanse. If you aren't depressed about your infertility yet, this will do it for sure. I visited the office of a homeopath where she asked me lots of kind, insightful questions about myself and listened like a therapist would. Then she had me lie down on my back on a massage table and hang my right arm straight out to the side. She set jars of supplements on my chest one at a time. With each supplement, she would push down on my arm to test my strength. She said that I was stronger with certain supplements and weaker with others. This was very bizarre and difficult to believe but also difficult to dispute. Then she convinced me to purchase these prenatal vitamins and a tub of powder for my prescribed cleanse. One hundred and fifty dollars later, I was on my way, trying to figure out how to explain this to Andrew. It was going to be a challenge. Speaking of a challenge...the cleanse itself was misery. I was only allowed to eat leafy greens, apples, and these gross shakes. I remember going to a baby shower at work and not even being able to eat the cake because of this stupid cleanse. Nothing like adding insult to injury. Some people swear by these things. I guess I'm just not that strong.

6. Use a hot water bottle at 110 degrees for 20-60 minutes on your belly between period and ovulation. Didn't do it. I wasn't sure how to take the water bottle's temperature. Plus, I haven't had a period in ten years and I don't ovulate, so...

7. Use castor oil packs on your belly three times per week for 45-60 minutes at a time for 90 days. What even is castor oil? Sounds gross. 

8. Cut out cold foods. This one is surprisingly a challenge for me. In fact, I craved cold foods during our IVF cycle. Probably just because I knew I wasn't supposed to have them.

9. Stop eating peas. A friend told me that there's this part of the world where fertility is extremely low. Apparently they eat a lot of peas there, and some scientists are making a connection. I like peas, but I rarely eat them now. 

10. Egg whites, turkey baster...you get the picture. Apparently the egg whites are supposed to act like cervical mucus and basically create a slip-and-slide for the sperm. I'm not joking.

11. No more sugar. Sigh. Do I even have to explain how difficult this one is for me? My sugar cravings have always been super powerful. On more than one occasion, when unable to find sweets in the house, I have poured sugar directly from the canister into my mouth. Even worse, we aren't just talking about refined sugars. Fructose (fruit sugar) is bad. Lactose (milk sugar) is even worse for people with PCOS. Carbohydrates contain sugars. I'm supposed to eat low-fat protein, non-starchy green and white vegetables, cold water fish and seafood, white meat poultry, eggs and limited amounts of certain fruits. This actually sounds delicious. I love these types of foods, but it's the convenience factor that gets me. And the sugar cravings. Those don't help.

12. Lose 5-10% of body weight. Nursing was my diet plan and personal trainer in one. I pumped a lot, WAY more than Harriet could have ever used, so I lost my baby weight fairly quickly and I recently weighed less (by a pound) than I did in college. I felt so great. But then we started weaning. The weight is slowly but surely piling back on, and I've got to do something about it. Having a small child and living in a very cold part of the country makes it difficult to exercise, so I've got to get creative. The other day, I tried to do a kickboxing video in my living room. I stepped on a toy and almost fell. Harriet was freaked out and wanted me to hold her. And the dog was attacking me.

There are so many more. So, so many. I do my best. Sometimes my best is pretty impressive. And other times, my best is crap. As I was drafting this post, I started to notice myself heading in the direction of self pity, as in, "it's such a bummer that I even have to think about this stuff." But then I realized that most of these things should be on all of our to-do lists, fertile or infertile. Why did I even consider complaining about about having to take good care of my body? 

The egg whites...that's a different story.

a century

My grandpa turned 100 on December 15th. He was born in 1912, the youngest of 12 children. His parents traveled to America by boat from a German colony in Russia, then took a wagon the rest of the way. When they got here, they dug a hole in the ground, tipped the wagon upside down on top of the hole and filled in the gaps with mud and sod. They lived in that makeshift structure while they built something more permanent. My grandpa was born in that sod house. He lived on a farm, taught in a one-room schoolhouse, sang in a men's quartet, traveled the world, raised five children, and helped build a submarine. His 100 years have been fully lived.

I volunteered to speak at his birthday party. Here's what I said...

"When I think about my grandpa’s life, or at least the quarter of it that I’ve been able to witness, I think of three things: family, service, and hope.

The first thing, family, comes to mind right away because my grandpa has always been very committed to his family. I spent quite a bit of time at their home as a child and those days are some of my sweetest and most vivid memories. I remember feeding ducks at the arboretum, watching puppet shows in the park, and picking raspberries in the backyard. I remember watching cartoons together and eating pistachio pudding. I remember warm meals and wonderful conversations about what it was like to grow up a whole century ago. I couldn’t get enough of those stories.

I was kind of a theatrical kid. I loved attention. And my grandparents were my absolute biggest fans. Whether there happened to be an ice-skating show on the tile in their basement, a circus on the tire swing in their backyard, or a concert in their living room, they never missed a show. My grandma would pop popcorn and my grandpa would buy it from me. We would make tickets, and I’d tear them their rain checks. Then they would sit and watch and smile and clap, wholeheartedly, without distraction. For them, there were no cell phones to answer, no tasks to check off their to-do lists. In those moments, and there were a lot of them, I was it."   

[Here's where I started getting a little choked up.]

"I remember Oprah asking parents of young kids -  “Do your eyes light up when they walk into a room?” No question – my grandpa’s eyes always lit up when he saw me, and they still do." 

[And here's where I started sobbing. I tried to keep it together but it was useless. I literally had to wipe some snot off my face. And then from the front of the room, sitting beside my grandma, my grandpa said, "You're doing great." That's when I really lost it. Such a sweet little statement from a man who loves me a whole lot. That little kindness just did me in. Eventually I got it together...well, sort of.]

"There’s no greater feeling for a little girl, or a grown woman for that matter, than having someone love you that much, so much that their eyes light up. My grandpa really, really, really loves his family. I’m sure the other grandchildren have felt this. I’m sure they’ve seen my grandpa’s eyes light up too.

The second theme, service, is something that many friends, family members, neighbors, and even strangers have received from my grandpa at one time or another. My grandpa has always been a masterful fixer. No malfunctioning toaster or broken car could beat him. His determination, brain power, and especially his love for helping others allowed him to repair almost anything. Just this past year, he fixed a clock for my husband and I. He also loved inventing things. If someone had a task that wasn't going very smoothly, he would create a tool or some sort of contraption to help them, using just his brain and the stuff in his shop. But my grandpa’s service hasn’t been limited to repairs and inventions. He has always loved helping others – mowing lawns, driving people where they needed to go. Years back, he even won the Good Neighbor Award. I think he definitely deserved it.

The third thing, and the most important thing, that comes to mind when I consider my grandpa’s 100 years is hope. My grandpa wasn’t a spiritual person when he and my grandma married in ­­­­­­­1940. But my grandma faithfully prayed for him every day, and the rest of us joined in as we became old enough to develop our own relationships with God. It wasn’t til my grandpa was 88 years old that he gave his life over to Christ. He was baptized later that year. There were many times when we wondered if it would ever happen. But one day, with tears in his eyes, he told us that he had put aside his stubbornness and decided to let God in. That night, he prayed the blessing over our meal. It was the first time any of us had heard him pray. I can’t express the joy we felt in that moment. 

Even at 88, salvation created a unmistakeable change in my grandpa’s life and demeanor. He has always been kind, funny and caring. But his voice softened. His heart warmed. His eyes brightened. Joy, patience and gentleness flowed out of him, and still do. Today, my grandpa is one of the biggest prayer warriors I know. I am certain that on any given day, he and my grandma have prayed for me, for my husband, for my daughter, and for the rest of our family. 

Some of you may have people in your life who you feel are beyond hope. Some of you may feel that you yourself are beyond hope. But my grandpa’s life is proof that no one is beyond hope. His life is proof that an old dog can learn new tricks, that transformation can take place at any stage of life, and that prayer really does work. This, to me, is the most important part of my grandpa’s legacy. This hope is something that sticks with me and that I share with others often. Thanks so much for allowing me to share it with all of you today. But most of all, thank you, Grandpa, for being a good man, a man of character. For being a man of your word, a family man, a man of God. We love you dearly."

I wanted to share pieces of my grandpa's story with all of you because, first of all, I just really love my grandpa. And secondly, because this is a blog primarily about infertility, loss and parenthood. Sometimes I forget this because it happened so many years before I came along, but my grandparents know what it's like to lose a child. Their son, Richard, was born perfectly healthy. Just a few days later, while finishing up their hospital stay, Richard was very upset and crying when a nurse tried to calm him with a bottle. Apparently, she was rather forceful with her efforts. Baby Richard aspirated the milk into his lungs and died. I cannot even begin to imagine the agony my grandparents suffered as a result of this senseless tragedy. I have asked them about my uncle Richard but not very many times. I wonder how often they think about him. I wonder if their hearts still ache sometimes. I wonder if they look around the room at family gatherings and think, there should be one more. And I wonder if at ages 100 and 93, when heaven can't be far away, my grandparents look forward to a joyous reunion with their son, the son whom they barely got to meet, the son whom they have missed for nearly sixty years.

I will leave you with these sweet pictures of Harriet and my grandpa, each showing off their latest milestone.

bellies

Two weeks after we lost Ethan, Andrew and I grabbed lunch with my parents on Grand Avenue. While we were waiting for our food, I made a quick trip to the bathroom. As I stood there washing my hands, a hugely pregnant - beautifully pregnant - woman came through the door. She passed behind me and into one of the stalls. Hers was the first pregnant belly I had seen since my miscarriage and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I lingered a while, long enough for her to come out of the stall. I tried not to be creepy. I didn't want to stare, but I was just so amazed. How did she get that far? I knew that women went full term and had healthy babies every minute of every day. But at the same time, because I lost my boy so easily, so quickly, without doing anything wrong, it felt like a miracle that this woman could be so close to her due date and still going strong. I also felt...jealous. It wasn't a bitter jealousy but rather a deep, sad jealousy - a physical ache that filled the spot where Ethan should have been.

So began my belly phobia.

While I was trying to balance grieving our losses with going through fertility treatments, baby bellies seem to be everywhere. They were at Target. They were at restaurants. They were definitely at church. Church was the worst. They came in groups. They came wrapped in pretty sundresses or cute t-shirts with funny sayings about pregnancy. They seemed to have neon signs floating above them, blinking with messages like "Check this out!" and "I know you want one!" I'm pretty sure at one point, even old guys with beer bellies triggered my phobia. That was a real low.

Friends' bellies seemed to be expanding all around me, and I tried my absolute hardest to be thrilled for them, to celebrate those little babies, to be inquisitive and interested and excited. I tried so hard that it became exhausting, especially since I knew I was really bad at it. I wanted a belly just like theirs. But mine was empty and flat. (Actually, that's not true. It wasn't flat at all. Fertility drugs make you bloated and give you a pooch. I have a friend whose IVF meds made her belly pop out far enough to inspire an acquaintance to ask when she was due...ouch. And in the days leading up to our embryo transfer, my belly grew two inches in 24 hours. When I finally announced my pregnancy at work some months later, a coworker said that she could tell I was pregnant way back in early March. Um...I wasn't pregnant then. Nice.) Some very kind, sensitive friends wore loose shirts and tried to downplay their baby bellies. I was always so grateful for their efforts but it didn't change the fact that those camouflaged bellies were all I could think about.

Being friends with infertile folks is not for the faint of heart. I'm sure there are plenty of exceptions, but women on fertility drugs (and their partners) don't often make the greatest friends. From the side effects of the medications to the depression to the jealousy to the fading fake smiles, we just aren't very fun. When Andrew and I were about two years deep into infertility treatments, we looked around and realized that we had lost most of our friends. We hadn't had the energy to set up double dates or accept invitations to get togethers. I should have taken advantage of the nights Andrew worked to schedule a girls night or see a movie with a friend. But it was just so much easier to stay in my sweatpants.

There is a song by Sara Groves called "Like a Lake." She sings, "Everything in me is tightening, curling in around this ache." That's what I did. I think that's what a lot of us do. We close in around our pain. We try to contain it, protect it and hold it dear. And in doing so, our eyes turn away from the rest of the world and its pain, from our loved ones and their distress, even from our partners and their heartache. Later in the song, Sara sings of "fighting to stay open" and in her voice you hear the effort it takes to keep oneself open "like a lake," to expose our pain and make ourselves vulnerable to the pain of others. It can be so easy to get stuck in our stuckness and to feel that because we have weathered a tragedy or because we are on a very difficult journey, we have an excuse to stay that way. In doing so, we lose. We miss out on our own lives and the lives of others. I did this for a bit. I'm so glad I'm not there anymore.

It wasn't until I was pregnant that I was able to jump back into relationships. It wasn't so much a jump as it was a crawl. Some friendships were easy to reignite. Others took a little extra work, hard conversations, and mutual forgiveness. I am so grateful for the friends who stood by us throughout this process, who understood that for the time being, our friendship was going to be sort of one-sided. I'm also grateful for the friends who gave us some space and then opened their hearts up to us when we were ready again.

Despite renewed relationships and restored energy, my belly phobia continued...even though I myself was looking quite...rotund. At birth classes and maternity stores, I often felt like I could have a panic attack. Surrounded by pregnant women, I forgot I was one of them. Even women who weren't as far along as I was inspired that ugly jealous feeling. After Harriet was born, I told her birth story to a group of expectant moms, and even then, with my very own child in my arms, I felt jealous of the bellies all around me. What's that about?! Maybe it's just a habit, an automatic response. I don't really know.

I do know that I'm getting much, much better. Really, I am. These days, I feel truly happy for pregnant friends. These days, I ask those questions everyone asks (How far along? Boy or girl? Where will you deliver?) with real care rather than feigned interest. But I still feel it - that little part of me that wants a belly just like theirs.

There is an exception to the jealousy, to the belly phobia. People often think that having experienced miscarriage and infertility, I must be angry about the addicts, the teenagers, the prostitutes, the women on welfare who get pregnant so easily and repeatedly. I am telling the full truth when I say that seeing them or hearing about them does not make me feel sorry for myself or angry in the least. Having a child can be as devastating for one woman as not having a child is for another. Who am I to say that my heartache is more noble than hers?

I know it sounds strange but I sometimes feel that these women can understand my plight better than most. They know what it is to struggle with the process of getting pregnant, coping with pregnancy, and having that child. I'm not talking about morning sickness and sleepless nights. I'm talking about making the toughest decisions of your life. I'm talking about deep, dark loneliness. I'm talking about looking around and feeling like nobody can help you, no matter how hard they try. I think that women with unplanned (and sometimes unwanted) pregnancies get that.

I think my belly phobia is strongest around those who don't seem to struggle with it at all. Getting pregnant (and staying pregnant) doesn't come easily for me, so if I'm not careful, I end up feeling sorry for myself around those people. I end up feeling jealous of the fact that they can actually decide when they feel like having a baby rather than having to save up thousands of dollars, involve doctors and nurses, and deal with month after month of heartbreak. That's when I have to remind myself that pregnancy has never come easily for me, but other things have.

It wasn't difficult for me to find a husband. Andrew was the first guy who ever took me on a date. (Well, there was this one guy who I was sure took me on a date but later found out we were just "hanging out"...awkward.) I have friends who have bravely gone on blind date after blind date the way I have done clomid cycle after clomid cycle. Their hope has dwindled just like mine. They have become frustrated and almost given up just like me. This has been their struggle, and while I have had the benefit of a partner to support me through it, they have done it...are doing it...alone. I hope and pray that they have struggled enough in the pursuit of a family and that God will give them children with little trouble. School has also come easily for me. I never doubted that I would finish college or that I would get a master's degree. But I know people who have struggled with academics and have had to work like crazy for every single credit. So fertility is my challenge. It's got to be something, right? Why not this?

People say losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a person. Maybe it is. But maybe it isn't. Maybe ranking people's pain as bad, worse, and worst is completely ridiculous. Especially in the world of infertility, we tend to measure our losses against one another. But from what I've observed, we rarely invalidate other people's losses. We're more likely to downplay our own. If we had an early miscarriage and someone else's child was stillborn, we feel that we shouldn't be as sad as they are. If we have been trying to get pregnant for two years and someone else has been on this road for five, we become embarrassed at our level of frustration. We chastise ourselves for not being as strong as the next person. Just like with the belly phobia, I'm not sure why this happens. I wish it didn't.

It won't be long before I'll be in active pursuit of another baby belly. It will be interesting to see whether my belly phobia crops up again. I sure hope I will be able to avoid curling in around my ache. I sure hope I will be able to stay open and aware of other people's struggles. I sure hope I can keep from measuring my journey against the journeys of those around me. And if you're in a similar situation, I hope the same for you. It's so, so hard. But where did we get the idea that we couldn't handle hard?

one

Yesterday was Harriet's first birthday. It's strange and wonderful how much difference a year can make. Last year at this time, I was just getting to know this little baby who felt one part stranger and one part kindred spirit. Today I am eating leftover birthday cake with hot pink frosting while my dear daughter naps upstairs. This has been a big year. I have had the honor of mothering this bright, brave, spirited, sweet girl and I can't think of a better way to have spent this time.

I think it's true what they say - the days are long but the years are short. Some of our days (and especially our nights) have been very long. But this year truly sprinted along, transforming my tiny button of a baby into a little person who walks and talks (sort of) and steals my heart over and over and over again.

Her birthday party was this past Saturday and it was, of course, pink. Someday she may play hockey, go fishing with her dad, and want to paint her bedroom orange or green. All of those things sound wonderful and I can't wait, but for now, while it's still up to me, I'm keeping things pink.

My husband is talented at a lot of things, but I never knew he had such a knack for crepe paper.

My mom made this fabulous wreath. I just love it.

Harriet's Auntie Bean helped us decorate for the party on Friday. As we were leaving, my mom said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we came back in the morning and Bean had folded the napkins into some crazy design?" Well, in the morning, there were swans.

Andrew and I made the cakes ourselves. My sweet friend who owns a cupcake business was very patient with me as I texted, called, and emailed for her advice and opinions.

She's one.

Harriet's godmother, Ashlee (below with her boyfriend, Dan). She may not be of the fairy variety, but I'm certain that if she had a magic wand, she would turn pumpkins into carriages and outfit our princess with glass slippers.

The napkin artist herself (with her boyfriend, JP).

  

Grammy and Papa.

This candle set off the smoke detectors...Are you surprised?

Unforunately, our party girl wasn't a fan of the smash cake.

 I was.

It had to be funfetti.

We planned three days of activities for Harriet's birthday weekend - the party on Saturday, the Holidazzle and Macy's 8th floor on Sunday, and the Mall of America on Monday. We ended up snowed in on Sunday. At first, I was disappointed to miss the parade and an afternoon downtown, but I ended up grateful for a day at home with nothing to do but play with Harriet. We tried out the sled she got from her aunt and uncle. You can't tell from the picture, but she loved it.

Yesterday, we had pancakes for breakfast. (That's a 1.)

And then headed to the Mall of America, where Harriet got to see the fish at the Sea Life Aquarium.

And rode the Merry-Go-Round with her dad.

She seriously loves shopping.

It feels so obvious and trite to write this, but...I feel so blessed. I vividly remember a time when I doubted we'd ever get here. And even during those rare hopeful times, I never could have dreamed that having a child would be this wonderful...and challenging and exhausting and messy...and wonderful.

Happy, happy birthday to you, Harriet Grace.