As an infertile mom, mostly I feel like an ordinary mom. My life is too busy and full with Eggbert, Mystery, work, and, well, life, to think too much about my own infertility. But there are days when it all does come crashing back.
Today was one of those days. I was already having a frustrating day, because I have somehow managed to injure both of my knees, making me hobble around in a piteous manner, and forcing me to work from home (since work is at the other end of a big steep hill that I just can't navigate in my current condition), and then my computer decided that it was time that I be taught a lesson, so I spent the whole day trying (unsuccessfully) to accomplish one fairly simple task. Then my period arrived.
It shouldn't have been a big deal. Eggbert is only 15 months old. My arms and heart are full. But it was a big deal. I admit it, I cried.
Before my next period arrives, I will turn 40. In just a few months after that, we will leave Korea, the land of cheap IVF, forever. Clearly, if I am serious about wanting another child, then it's time to start gearing up for an IVF cycle ASAP.
I don't want to do IVF. I don't want the needles, the expense, the mood swings, the risk of crushing failure. I don't want any of it.
But I do want another child. Just one more.
Once again, I am angry to be in this situation. I know that I'm one of the lucky ones. And when I look at Eggbert, I do feel incredibly fortunate, but it still does kind of grate on me that 85% of couples can just plan their family and have their kids, without ever having to face these kinds of days.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Becoming a Repatriate
Knowing that I'm leaving has changed my relationship with Korea. Things about Seoul that I found annoying before now provoke only amused sighs. Things that I always liked shine a bit brighter. My friends here seem smarter, kinder, and more interesting. OK, not really the last one. They were always pretty interesting, actually. But you know what I mean. Once we stopped trying Korea on for size, both Mystery and I have both been able to relax and admit that it's not perfect, but it's an interesting place, and we've had a nice life here.
While moving to another continent is a pretty daunting endeavor, we've done it together twice already, and I had already done it a few times before I met Mystery, so we pretty much know the drill. Luckily, we didn't bring too many possessions to Korea when we came, and haven't acquired much here (other than tons of baby stuff, most of which we'll just give away). We're also not moving until June, so we have plenty of time to figure out the details. So, while our lives will be upheaved for a while, I'm not particularly stressed about it. And just to make things even better, we have already managed to arrange the rental of a gorgeous house for our first six months back in the US from a family that will be overseas themselves. So, we don't have to look for housing right away, and can look around a bit and see what neighborhood we'd like to live in and what kind of a home we want.
So, on a logistical level, everything seems to be going well. The one thing about this move that has me a little disconcerted is my own emotional reaction to moving back to my own country. I'm mostly feeling good about it, from a practical perspective, but I am feeling a bit wistful. I'm not sure how I feel about not being an expat anymore.
Many years ago, in a former life, I had a friend who went to Japan after graduating from college to teach English. After a couple of years in Japan, she returned to the US. I asked her how it was going, and she said that she was having an identity crisis. When she had been living in Japan, and people in the US asked what she was doing (meaning what was her job), she responded that she was living in Japan, teaching English. The living in Japan part came first. The teaching English was an afterthought. Living in Japan was, for her, the daily accomplishment from which she derived her sense of accomplishment and self-worth. Once back in the US, she went back to being one of millions of relatively new college graduates without much in the way of marketable job skills. She eventually found her way, but for a while there, she felt really lost.
I'm in a different situation, obviously. I am established in my career (which does not involve teaching English), have a husband and child, and have made quite a number of trips around the sun already, so I have a fairly secure sense of who I am. Moving back to the US won't, for me, result in a psychological demotion in the workplace, and I'm moving back with a job in hand. However, I admit that I am feeling a little strange about giving up the perceived glamor (for lack of a better word) of living "overseas". Of course, living in Korea isn't actually any more glamorous than living anywhere else (although the man-purses that I see in huge numbers every time I go out in public do make a compelling argument that Seoul is more self-consciously fashionable than most places). My life here is fairly ordinary on the surface. I go to work. Come home, have dinner. Sometimes get together with friends, etc. But, there is an automatic special something about living in a country that isn't your place of origin, at least for me. The fact that the sights that I see, the sounds that I hear, the smells in the air, and the tastes of the food are different from those that I think of as "ordinary" puts an extra little sparkle on my day on most days. After over two years, I am used to living here, and some of that sparkle has faded into the clear light of day, but there are still moments every day when I take a deep breath and just appreciate the incredible luck that I've had that allowed me the experience of living here.
And soon it will be over. There will be new joys, new sparkles, and new adventures. I'll be able to put down some tentative new roots without any immediate expectation of pulling them up again down the road. I'll be closer to my family, most of my friends, places that sell the foods that I have been missing for so long. These things are huge, and I'm excited about them. But I don't know when, or if, I'll get the chance to live "overseas" again, which makes me a little sad. And I wonder if, when I get back to the US, having seen what I've seen, learned what I've learned, lived where I've lived, I'll fit in.
While moving to another continent is a pretty daunting endeavor, we've done it together twice already, and I had already done it a few times before I met Mystery, so we pretty much know the drill. Luckily, we didn't bring too many possessions to Korea when we came, and haven't acquired much here (other than tons of baby stuff, most of which we'll just give away). We're also not moving until June, so we have plenty of time to figure out the details. So, while our lives will be upheaved for a while, I'm not particularly stressed about it. And just to make things even better, we have already managed to arrange the rental of a gorgeous house for our first six months back in the US from a family that will be overseas themselves. So, we don't have to look for housing right away, and can look around a bit and see what neighborhood we'd like to live in and what kind of a home we want.
So, on a logistical level, everything seems to be going well. The one thing about this move that has me a little disconcerted is my own emotional reaction to moving back to my own country. I'm mostly feeling good about it, from a practical perspective, but I am feeling a bit wistful. I'm not sure how I feel about not being an expat anymore.
Many years ago, in a former life, I had a friend who went to Japan after graduating from college to teach English. After a couple of years in Japan, she returned to the US. I asked her how it was going, and she said that she was having an identity crisis. When she had been living in Japan, and people in the US asked what she was doing (meaning what was her job), she responded that she was living in Japan, teaching English. The living in Japan part came first. The teaching English was an afterthought. Living in Japan was, for her, the daily accomplishment from which she derived her sense of accomplishment and self-worth. Once back in the US, she went back to being one of millions of relatively new college graduates without much in the way of marketable job skills. She eventually found her way, but for a while there, she felt really lost.
I'm in a different situation, obviously. I am established in my career (which does not involve teaching English), have a husband and child, and have made quite a number of trips around the sun already, so I have a fairly secure sense of who I am. Moving back to the US won't, for me, result in a psychological demotion in the workplace, and I'm moving back with a job in hand. However, I admit that I am feeling a little strange about giving up the perceived glamor (for lack of a better word) of living "overseas". Of course, living in Korea isn't actually any more glamorous than living anywhere else (although the man-purses that I see in huge numbers every time I go out in public do make a compelling argument that Seoul is more self-consciously fashionable than most places). My life here is fairly ordinary on the surface. I go to work. Come home, have dinner. Sometimes get together with friends, etc. But, there is an automatic special something about living in a country that isn't your place of origin, at least for me. The fact that the sights that I see, the sounds that I hear, the smells in the air, and the tastes of the food are different from those that I think of as "ordinary" puts an extra little sparkle on my day on most days. After over two years, I am used to living here, and some of that sparkle has faded into the clear light of day, but there are still moments every day when I take a deep breath and just appreciate the incredible luck that I've had that allowed me the experience of living here.
And soon it will be over. There will be new joys, new sparkles, and new adventures. I'll be able to put down some tentative new roots without any immediate expectation of pulling them up again down the road. I'll be closer to my family, most of my friends, places that sell the foods that I have been missing for so long. These things are huge, and I'm excited about them. But I don't know when, or if, I'll get the chance to live "overseas" again, which makes me a little sad. And I wonder if, when I get back to the US, having seen what I've seen, learned what I've learned, lived where I've lived, I'll fit in.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Year of the Ox
This weekend a four-day holiday starts, celebrating the end of the Year of the Rat and the beginning of the Year of the Ox. The stores are now stocked with beautifully packaged gift baskets, as gift-giving is a part of the tradition. Lovely boxes containing carefully-chosen, individually packaged fruits can sell for exorbitant prices, as can other foodstuffs, like fragrant oils, honeys, and such. A few days ago, though, I saw a gift box that absolutely blew my mind. In a nice yellow box, swaddled in tissue, lay four parallel rows of shiny, clean, cans of...
wait for it...
Spam. Yes. Good old-fashioned spam. Apparently nothing says Happy New Year like processed pig parts.
Happy Lunar New Year!
(P.S. I took the job. It's now official. USA here we come.)
wait for it...
Spam. Yes. Good old-fashioned spam. Apparently nothing says Happy New Year like processed pig parts.
Happy Lunar New Year!
(P.S. I took the job. It's now official. USA here we come.)
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Limbo
I'm still here. Just having trouble organizing my thoughts. The last couple of months have been pretty intense in a lot of ways. Not bad, just intense.
The big gap in blog posts was originally precipitated by a trip to the US. We were there for almost a month, visiting friends and taking care of some life details. The trip was non-optional for us if Mystery wanted to keep his green card, since staying outside of the USA for too long will get it canceled, and his re-entry permit (basically a permit to stay out for two years) expired, so he needed to get himself firmly planted back on US soil before the expiration date. It was a pretty welcome trip for other reasons as well, though. I have a new nephew that I hadn't met, several of my dearest friends had new kids too, and of course I'm pretty fond of lots of adults in the US too (and previously existing kids), so it was fantastic to get to meet the new people, and reconnect with the "old" ones.
Eggbert had a fantastic time, other than the jet lag which she decidedly did NOT enjoy. (I didn't enjoy getting up for the day with her at 3 am for what seemed like weeks either, but I guess that's the price you pay for switching sides of the Pacific.) It turns out that she loves other kids, even if she doesn't quite know how to play with them yet. It was quite sweet to watch. And of course, the time that we spent with my parents spoiled her rotten--she LOVED having a staff of four, rather than just the usual two. I think that returning to Korea was a bit disappointing for her.
Arguably the most eventful event of the trip was a job interview for me. As I posted some time ago, Mystery and I have come to the conclusion that it just doesn't make sense for us to continue to plant roots in Korea, so we've been working on an exit strategy. Well, that strategy now seems close to fruition. Nothing is finalized yet, but it looks like we'll be moving back to the US in about six months.
I'm really happy and relieved that in this economy, I have managed to find a decent position, but I'm also having some anxiety about leaving Korea. I never quite felt at home here, whatever that means, but it has grown on me, and I know I'll miss it. In the mean time, my mind is neither here nor there. I think it'll be easier to cope once the final decision is made, and it's all official.
The big gap in blog posts was originally precipitated by a trip to the US. We were there for almost a month, visiting friends and taking care of some life details. The trip was non-optional for us if Mystery wanted to keep his green card, since staying outside of the USA for too long will get it canceled, and his re-entry permit (basically a permit to stay out for two years) expired, so he needed to get himself firmly planted back on US soil before the expiration date. It was a pretty welcome trip for other reasons as well, though. I have a new nephew that I hadn't met, several of my dearest friends had new kids too, and of course I'm pretty fond of lots of adults in the US too (and previously existing kids), so it was fantastic to get to meet the new people, and reconnect with the "old" ones.
Eggbert had a fantastic time, other than the jet lag which she decidedly did NOT enjoy. (I didn't enjoy getting up for the day with her at 3 am for what seemed like weeks either, but I guess that's the price you pay for switching sides of the Pacific.) It turns out that she loves other kids, even if she doesn't quite know how to play with them yet. It was quite sweet to watch. And of course, the time that we spent with my parents spoiled her rotten--she LOVED having a staff of four, rather than just the usual two. I think that returning to Korea was a bit disappointing for her.
Arguably the most eventful event of the trip was a job interview for me. As I posted some time ago, Mystery and I have come to the conclusion that it just doesn't make sense for us to continue to plant roots in Korea, so we've been working on an exit strategy. Well, that strategy now seems close to fruition. Nothing is finalized yet, but it looks like we'll be moving back to the US in about six months.
I'm really happy and relieved that in this economy, I have managed to find a decent position, but I'm also having some anxiety about leaving Korea. I never quite felt at home here, whatever that means, but it has grown on me, and I know I'll miss it. In the mean time, my mind is neither here nor there. I think it'll be easier to cope once the final decision is made, and it's all official.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I finally get it
It's now about four years since I first read an infertility blog and more than that since I found message boards. During that time, I've read a lot of heartfelt posts and comments that have hit me right in the gut because I could connect so completely with what the writer was saying, experiencing, and feeling. Other posts, I didn't have the personal experience to relate to, but I could imagine the situation, and could feel profound empathy, even though I had never been exactly in the same place. But every now and then, I've read something, obviously coming from a place of sincere emotion, that made me think, "hunh?"
The community affected by infertility is large and diverse, so it's probably not surprising that we sometimes have different emotional reactions to the same basic set of problems. I've always thought of myself as someone who makes a great effort to try to understand other points of view, and who usually eventually achieves at least limited success. However, I have been genuinely mystified by some things that I've read over the years.
The "primary vs. secondary infertility" discussion is a great example. Anybody that's been around the web block a few times has run into this classic debate: which is worse, primary or secondary infertility? I have always been dumbfounded by people who claimed that secondary infertility was worse, or even in the same universe as primary infertility. It's not that I don't believe that they believe that, but it has always been clear to me that there is something that I'm not getting, something that they're not getting, or both.
I once read a message board post on a board for women who had been trying to conceive their first child for several years in which the writer explained that she wasn't so much upset that she didn't have children, but rather that it wasn't her choice. A number of other women agreed. I was flabbergasted.
Finally, I've never been able to really grasp how someone could struggle with infertility for many years without seriously pursuing medical help if they could afford it. I've seen lots of women that I admire and respect choose this option, and I respect their choice and believe that it must be best for them, but something in my heart has always cried out, "but don't you want to at least TRY?"
A few days ago, I was thinking about this, probably prompted by this post, when suddenly, I had what was to me a revelation. Probably everybody else already knew this, but just in case, I'll spell it out: Grief about infertility is a different problem from grief about involuntary childlessness. Infertility is at the root of both, obviously, but these problems are made of fundamentally different stuff.
Infertility is by definition a failure to be able to (easily, at least) do something that most people can do--have sex and end up with a baby just like that. Learning to live with the fact that you can't do something pretty basic is hard. Since most people or couples are not aware that they're infertile until they try to conceive, it is usually a shock, and feels like a loss: of self-esteem, of control, or dignity, of hope. Many feel betrayed by their bodies. Made less a man or a woman. Frustrated and helpless as they watch others effortlessly (and in some cases, without even wanting it) do this thing that they can't do. It's hard.
Involuntary childlessness can happen for a number of reasons, including medical problems or the absence of a committed partner coupled with the unwillingness or absence of means to become a single parent. It seems that people react to involuntary childlessness in a huge number of ways. For some, it marks every day with sadness and the feeling that there is something very important missing, while for others, it seems to fall closer to the feelings that I have about my own involuntary mansionlessness, which can be summed up as "it would be nice, but whatever".
It seems to me that a lot of the things that I haven't been able to grasp about people's varied responses to infertility can be explained by the idea that while most infertile couples are upset by both the fact of their infertility and their involuntary childlessness, the relative importance of each of these factors varies dramatically between people.
It seems to be a spectrum. On one end, there are the people that don't care at all about being infertile, they just want a child. For people of this type, the realization that they are infertile often leads to an immediate decision to adopt. On the other end, there are the people who are gutted by the loss of their fertility, but bothered less by childlessness itself. In the middle, there are people who are bothered by both to a fairly equal extent.
I'm in the middle, but closer to the first type: I was more bothered by childlessness than infertility. For the first year that I was trying, I was definitely upset about infertility itself. It seemed so unfair that I couldn't just have sex with my husband and get pregnant like a normal human being. Teenagers can do it. People with serious substance abuse problems can do it. People who make godawful parents can do it. Why couldn't I?
At some point, I got over that. Five stages of grief later, I think I really am at a place where the infertility part of infertility doesn't really bother me too much. Of course it would be lovely to just have sex with my husband and end up pregnant. I still fantasize about that happening for us, but no longer in a desperate, unhealthy way. It would be nice, but the main thing that would make it nice is if it resulted in a healthy live baby at the end. I am no longer concerned at all about the process. For me it's about the outcome.
When I think about infertility and childlessness separately, all of a sudden, I "get" what other people have been telling me about their feelings. It DOES suck to be left out of a great miracle like natural (unassisted) conception and reproduction. If that was your dream, then I can see how IUI's or IVF or donor conception or adoption wouldn't feel like a solution to your problem at all. And I can also see how secondary infertility could seem particularly cruel--having experienced the miracle once without even realizing that it was your one and only time, only to find out that what you thought was the trial run was really the final event.
For me, while infertility itself was a blow, it was one that I could take. What brought me to my knees was fear of childlessness. Fear of not having a child that was genetically part me and part Mystery, but also fear of not having a child at all. So to me, secondary infertility already feels a bit like the promised land.
I still am bothered by the fact that I may not end up being able to give the Egg a sibling. I will try, but failure is a very likely outcome. And if I fail, it will hurt. But this time, I know I'll be OK. I am not childless. I have a little Egg who sets my heart aglow with joy every day.
My period arrived on her first birthday. I am now officially trying to conceive again.
The community affected by infertility is large and diverse, so it's probably not surprising that we sometimes have different emotional reactions to the same basic set of problems. I've always thought of myself as someone who makes a great effort to try to understand other points of view, and who usually eventually achieves at least limited success. However, I have been genuinely mystified by some things that I've read over the years.
The "primary vs. secondary infertility" discussion is a great example. Anybody that's been around the web block a few times has run into this classic debate: which is worse, primary or secondary infertility? I have always been dumbfounded by people who claimed that secondary infertility was worse, or even in the same universe as primary infertility. It's not that I don't believe that they believe that, but it has always been clear to me that there is something that I'm not getting, something that they're not getting, or both.
I once read a message board post on a board for women who had been trying to conceive their first child for several years in which the writer explained that she wasn't so much upset that she didn't have children, but rather that it wasn't her choice. A number of other women agreed. I was flabbergasted.
Finally, I've never been able to really grasp how someone could struggle with infertility for many years without seriously pursuing medical help if they could afford it. I've seen lots of women that I admire and respect choose this option, and I respect their choice and believe that it must be best for them, but something in my heart has always cried out, "but don't you want to at least TRY?"
A few days ago, I was thinking about this, probably prompted by this post, when suddenly, I had what was to me a revelation. Probably everybody else already knew this, but just in case, I'll spell it out: Grief about infertility is a different problem from grief about involuntary childlessness. Infertility is at the root of both, obviously, but these problems are made of fundamentally different stuff.
Infertility is by definition a failure to be able to (easily, at least) do something that most people can do--have sex and end up with a baby just like that. Learning to live with the fact that you can't do something pretty basic is hard. Since most people or couples are not aware that they're infertile until they try to conceive, it is usually a shock, and feels like a loss: of self-esteem, of control, or dignity, of hope. Many feel betrayed by their bodies. Made less a man or a woman. Frustrated and helpless as they watch others effortlessly (and in some cases, without even wanting it) do this thing that they can't do. It's hard.
Involuntary childlessness can happen for a number of reasons, including medical problems or the absence of a committed partner coupled with the unwillingness or absence of means to become a single parent. It seems that people react to involuntary childlessness in a huge number of ways. For some, it marks every day with sadness and the feeling that there is something very important missing, while for others, it seems to fall closer to the feelings that I have about my own involuntary mansionlessness, which can be summed up as "it would be nice, but whatever".
It seems to me that a lot of the things that I haven't been able to grasp about people's varied responses to infertility can be explained by the idea that while most infertile couples are upset by both the fact of their infertility and their involuntary childlessness, the relative importance of each of these factors varies dramatically between people.
It seems to be a spectrum. On one end, there are the people that don't care at all about being infertile, they just want a child. For people of this type, the realization that they are infertile often leads to an immediate decision to adopt. On the other end, there are the people who are gutted by the loss of their fertility, but bothered less by childlessness itself. In the middle, there are people who are bothered by both to a fairly equal extent.
I'm in the middle, but closer to the first type: I was more bothered by childlessness than infertility. For the first year that I was trying, I was definitely upset about infertility itself. It seemed so unfair that I couldn't just have sex with my husband and get pregnant like a normal human being. Teenagers can do it. People with serious substance abuse problems can do it. People who make godawful parents can do it. Why couldn't I?
At some point, I got over that. Five stages of grief later, I think I really am at a place where the infertility part of infertility doesn't really bother me too much. Of course it would be lovely to just have sex with my husband and end up pregnant. I still fantasize about that happening for us, but no longer in a desperate, unhealthy way. It would be nice, but the main thing that would make it nice is if it resulted in a healthy live baby at the end. I am no longer concerned at all about the process. For me it's about the outcome.
When I think about infertility and childlessness separately, all of a sudden, I "get" what other people have been telling me about their feelings. It DOES suck to be left out of a great miracle like natural (unassisted) conception and reproduction. If that was your dream, then I can see how IUI's or IVF or donor conception or adoption wouldn't feel like a solution to your problem at all. And I can also see how secondary infertility could seem particularly cruel--having experienced the miracle once without even realizing that it was your one and only time, only to find out that what you thought was the trial run was really the final event.
For me, while infertility itself was a blow, it was one that I could take. What brought me to my knees was fear of childlessness. Fear of not having a child that was genetically part me and part Mystery, but also fear of not having a child at all. So to me, secondary infertility already feels a bit like the promised land.
I still am bothered by the fact that I may not end up being able to give the Egg a sibling. I will try, but failure is a very likely outcome. And if I fail, it will hurt. But this time, I know I'll be OK. I am not childless. I have a little Egg who sets my heart aglow with joy every day.
My period arrived on her first birthday. I am now officially trying to conceive again.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The power of speech
Well, Eggbert has finally decided to grace us with a few words, and at the same time to cement her reputation as a nursing-obsessed drama queen. Without further ado:
Her first word (in Mysterious): Oh no! (it's one word in the Language of Mystery)
Her second word (first in English): boobie
Needless to say, I'm mortified that I taught my innocent child such a silly name for the human breast. Nonetheless, I plan to tell this story at her wedding.
Her first word (in Mysterious): Oh no! (it's one word in the Language of Mystery)
Her second word (first in English): boobie
Needless to say, I'm mortified that I taught my innocent child such a silly name for the human breast. Nonetheless, I plan to tell this story at her wedding.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
View from the other side
If you're wondering where I've been lately, the answer is sleeping. For the first time since Eggbert was born, I now have a reasonable expectation of 7-8 uninterrupted sleep every night. It doesn't happen every night, but it happens more often than not. Several times in the last two weeks or so, I've caught myself thinking "what is this feeling, I feel great!" and then realizing that this is what it feels like not to be sleep-deprived. Now I've never been one to take sleep for granted--I've always had a healthy respect, nay, love, for the stuff, but I am still finding myself astonished at how much of a difference a good night's sleep makes.
Yes it's true that I'm still bf rather a lot, despite the closing of the all-night bar. I had originally planned to exclusively breastfeed until age 6 months, wean by 9 months, and be doing another IVF cycle by now. It kind of cracks me up to think about it. I clearly had never met myself, or Eggbert, if I thought that was going to fly. It might have worked if Eggbert had been a different baby, actually. I do have a spine somewhere under all of the mush, but I just wasn't equipped to deal with denying the boob to a baby that was (well, actually, is) absolutely passionate about it. I expected that she would like it, but I had never expect that she would love it so much. To this day, she cackles with glee when the boob comes out, and dives on it, making little happy sounds, whenever she sees it. Every. Single. Time. It doesn't matter if she just ate 3 seconds ago. The boob always fills her with delight.
I did try to get things under control earlier. I tried night weaning in August, and it was a disaster. The first time she woke up at night and a boob wasn't forthcoming, she screamed blue murder for what felt like an hour. She never really seemed to settle down, she just finally seemed to collapse with exhaustion. I was holding her and trying to calm her for much of it, but she was just so angry and upset that nothing that I could do helped. It was awful. I really think that even the staunchest CIO supporter would have been shaken. I held out for three nights, counting the minutes until the sun rose, so it would be "morning", and I could give her the damn boob already. After the third awful night stretched into the third awful day (she was horribly cranky, I was horribly cranky), I decided that maybe for whatever reason, she just wasn't ready. Since then I have felt like a terrible wimp, so it felt really validating to my instincts as a mom that this time, she whined a little for five minutes the first night, was easily soothed, and that was pretty much that. I don't think she's even woken up at night in a week, and when she does, it's just for a quick cuddle and then back to sleep (and let's face it, that's almost better than uninterrupted sleep).
So here we are. These days, I'm nursing her in the morning, and then not again until about 7 pm, then again at 8, and occasionally again when I go to bed, if she happens to wake up. I stopped pumping over a month ago, and will finish my frozen breastmilk stash early next week, so she'll soon be on cow's milk throughout the day. There are still no signs of my period, but I'm trying not to stress about that. In a while, once I'm sure she's doing well with the cow's milk, I'll work on phasing out the 7 pm feeding. After that, well, I don't know. We'll have to see.
That wasn't even what I was going to post about. Last weekend I spent some time with a friend from my Korean language class that I hadn't seen since the week that Eggbert was conceived, because she no longer lives in Korea. She is now 15 weeks pregnant with her first child. I realized that this was the first time that I'd had a friend be pregnant for the first time after me. All of my friends had their first kids years ago (mostly about 10-20 months after I started trying to conceive, as if to torture me), so it was my first time being the one in a position to offer advice. I'd love to say that I was graceful about it, and carefully kept from spewing assvice, but honestly nothing could be further from the truth. So many words spilled out of me on a huge number of topics from birthing and breastfeeding to how to choose the right stroller/pram, that I thought I might drown in my own verbiage. It wasn't pretty. Luckily, my friend had the patience of a saint. I hope that she understood that I was just excited for her.
The most interesting thing about this encounter, though, was seeing how nervous she is about this pregnancy. She conceived easily, and has never suffered a loss, yet even at 15 weeks, she can't stand to buy anything, or plan anything, because she's so conscious of all of the things that could (but probably won't) happen. She could barely even mention the due date without saying something like "if we make it that far", and she admitted that she had tried to arrange an ultrasound during her four-day visit in Korea, just to reassure herself that the baby was OK. Hearing all of this really challenged my own stereotypes about "fertiles", and the difference between "fertiles" and "infertiles". It turns out that there are nervous types on both sides of the fence, and that conceiving easily doesn't necessarily guarantee peace of mind. Who knew?
Yes it's true that I'm still bf rather a lot, despite the closing of the all-night bar. I had originally planned to exclusively breastfeed until age 6 months, wean by 9 months, and be doing another IVF cycle by now. It kind of cracks me up to think about it. I clearly had never met myself, or Eggbert, if I thought that was going to fly. It might have worked if Eggbert had been a different baby, actually. I do have a spine somewhere under all of the mush, but I just wasn't equipped to deal with denying the boob to a baby that was (well, actually, is) absolutely passionate about it. I expected that she would like it, but I had never expect that she would love it so much. To this day, she cackles with glee when the boob comes out, and dives on it, making little happy sounds, whenever she sees it. Every. Single. Time. It doesn't matter if she just ate 3 seconds ago. The boob always fills her with delight.
I did try to get things under control earlier. I tried night weaning in August, and it was a disaster. The first time she woke up at night and a boob wasn't forthcoming, she screamed blue murder for what felt like an hour. She never really seemed to settle down, she just finally seemed to collapse with exhaustion. I was holding her and trying to calm her for much of it, but she was just so angry and upset that nothing that I could do helped. It was awful. I really think that even the staunchest CIO supporter would have been shaken. I held out for three nights, counting the minutes until the sun rose, so it would be "morning", and I could give her the damn boob already. After the third awful night stretched into the third awful day (she was horribly cranky, I was horribly cranky), I decided that maybe for whatever reason, she just wasn't ready. Since then I have felt like a terrible wimp, so it felt really validating to my instincts as a mom that this time, she whined a little for five minutes the first night, was easily soothed, and that was pretty much that. I don't think she's even woken up at night in a week, and when she does, it's just for a quick cuddle and then back to sleep (and let's face it, that's almost better than uninterrupted sleep).
So here we are. These days, I'm nursing her in the morning, and then not again until about 7 pm, then again at 8, and occasionally again when I go to bed, if she happens to wake up. I stopped pumping over a month ago, and will finish my frozen breastmilk stash early next week, so she'll soon be on cow's milk throughout the day. There are still no signs of my period, but I'm trying not to stress about that. In a while, once I'm sure she's doing well with the cow's milk, I'll work on phasing out the 7 pm feeding. After that, well, I don't know. We'll have to see.
That wasn't even what I was going to post about. Last weekend I spent some time with a friend from my Korean language class that I hadn't seen since the week that Eggbert was conceived, because she no longer lives in Korea. She is now 15 weeks pregnant with her first child. I realized that this was the first time that I'd had a friend be pregnant for the first time after me. All of my friends had their first kids years ago (mostly about 10-20 months after I started trying to conceive, as if to torture me), so it was my first time being the one in a position to offer advice. I'd love to say that I was graceful about it, and carefully kept from spewing assvice, but honestly nothing could be further from the truth. So many words spilled out of me on a huge number of topics from birthing and breastfeeding to how to choose the right stroller/pram, that I thought I might drown in my own verbiage. It wasn't pretty. Luckily, my friend had the patience of a saint. I hope that she understood that I was just excited for her.
The most interesting thing about this encounter, though, was seeing how nervous she is about this pregnancy. She conceived easily, and has never suffered a loss, yet even at 15 weeks, she can't stand to buy anything, or plan anything, because she's so conscious of all of the things that could (but probably won't) happen. She could barely even mention the due date without saying something like "if we make it that far", and she admitted that she had tried to arrange an ultrasound during her four-day visit in Korea, just to reassure herself that the baby was OK. Hearing all of this really challenged my own stereotypes about "fertiles", and the difference between "fertiles" and "infertiles". It turns out that there are nervous types on both sides of the fence, and that conceiving easily doesn't necessarily guarantee peace of mind. Who knew?
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