Baby Q and Tender Roni

Every great love affair has a song. Sloan and my's song is All My Life by David Wilcox. And the song for me and my two sweet blastocyst babies is Beethoven's Symphony Number 4 in B Flat: Adagio. This is the song that was playing on my Ipod when I first saw them pop into view on the ultrasound screen.

Right around the time I took my Valium, Valerie called to tell me that they thawed out my first pair of blasts and that they did not look optimum so that they were going to thaw out the second pair. Okay, I said. By this time, according to Sloan, I was pretty baked.

After dropping Henry off at his beloved Na-no's house, we arrived at the center around 11:30. At noon, Dr. T came in with the above photo of our babies. He explained that the two on the right were the first pair they thawed. With embryos, there is a relatively basic grading system. But blast transfers are different and there isn't such a grading system. However according to the embryologists, the bottom left blast was rated "good", the top left blast was "fair", and the two on the right were poor to non-viable. So we decided to transfer the two on the left and allow the two on the right to grow for another day and should they survive, be refrozen and subsequently stored. (How American of us to have a system that ranks you before you are even born. My buddy Ann always laughs at the apgar score, "Welcome to the world, here's your score." Well, my two babies have already been graded. Hopefully, and I hope I get to regret this statement, I hope my babies grow up to be like their Momma and place little value on grades.)

I noticed that the blastocysts look like those pre-made pizza doughs. Or little pepperonis. Which led me then to tell the doctor that we would be transferring "Baby Q" and "Tender Roni".

Yes, I have named one of my in utero babies after a Bobby Brown song. In my defense, I'm all hepped up on hormones. We are very excited and scared at the prospect of twins. But also know that should God give us twins it will be His job to take care of the details and our job to simply love them.

Speaking of loving children, Sloan has had the pleasure of experiencing Henry's Transformer alter-ego--"Stairscream". I know it is evil of me, but it brings me joy to simply lie on the couch watching Al Roker (because I gotta raise these two babies on Al like their older brother was) while Sloan experiences Henry like he never has before. Henry screamed all through eating his breakfast waffle. He did stop screaming to cuddle with me on the couch and watch the movie Bolt. Although he did, from time to time, go up to the TV screen to point at the animals and identify them for me. Dog, woo woo. Ca--meow, meow. And the hamster? Well, he just fell into the category that all unidentified animals fall into--Baa. Baa.

At lunch time, he started screaming again so that Sloan finally said, "That's it. You obviously aren't hungry. You're taking your nap early. I need to not be around you for awhile." And as he took the Pickle upstairs, I simply sat on the couch and laughed my evil Count Chockula laugh. Ha Ha Ha.

We will find out whether one or both of these babies "take" on May 18th. We will be at the beach and I'll be getting tested at a LabCorp somewhere in South Carolina. Because we'll be at the beach and because of the nature of the news, I will be taking a Blogatical from May 16-25th. Should you desperately need something to read during that week, I suggest taking a gander at one of the blogs in my blog list.

Just Supporting Cast

(Warning--I'm still a bit nuts. I mean, I did play Wii Tennis this afternoon at Wal-Mart for half an hour. Until the middle schooler next to me said, "Um, lady, do you think I could have a turn?")

I fully recognize that it is not normal to talk about your girl parts in public. Or, as the case may be, to write about their dysfunction ad nauseam on the world wide web. I just wanted you to know that I am aware of that fact.

And yet (what a wonderful way to approach the day!) somewhere in the midst of this hell-hole of infertility and incompetent cervix and just general ineffectualness of parenting, something special has happened. And like most GREAT things in my life, I've had little to do with it.

Recently, I've been getting emails, facebook messages, and phone calls about struggling with childlessness. And bed rest. Or how to relate to friends struggling with infertility. Or bed rest. And even emails about parenting. (Why people are asking me about parenting is a real shocker. Running down the aisles at Wal-Mart is our go-to rainy day activity. I mean, I entertained my son this afternoon by plopping him in a grocery cart and taking down Luigi.) I've even been stopped at the grocery store by a complete stranger who is struggling with infertility and a friend of hers told her about my blog. (Weird. A little creepy. But quite possibly one of the most fabulous moments of my life. Really wished I'd bathed that day.)

And most of you generally say something to the effect that you are in awe of my openness, encouraged by my willingness to be vulnerable, and appreciate my sense of humor.

To this I want to say several things--

1. It may be entirely possible that I'm too emotionally raw at this point to discern what I should and should not be saying. I'm simply too tired to suck it up and put on a brave face.

2. I've said it before and I'll say it again, when your adult life is once again centered around bodily functions that you apparently have no control over, you have two choices--you can laugh or you can cry. (As of late, I've been doing lots of both. But generally, laughing is my preference. It doesn't make my mascara run and I can count it as exercise.)

3. I would like to point out that through all of my "strength" I have been pretty passive. I cry. I cry out. I wake up with my face stuck to my pillow with snot from having cried my empty-armed self to sleep. I lay in bed for 12 weeks. I go to the doctor. I get shots. I pop pills. I lie on a table and put my feet in stirrups. That is the extent of what I have, am, and will be doing. I have a team of doctors and nurses to whom I am entrusting the heavy lifting. And I have The Author of Life who is ever so softly cradling me, breathing life into this wackadoo frame, and redeeming the entire heartbraking process.

4. That is pretty much all I'm doing. I do not want to discount your gratitude. I don't want to belittle whatever fruit God is growing here by saying it's not a big deal. It is a huge deal. I simply want you to see that I'm doing nothing; God is doing everything. I want you to see I'm only narrating a story of which I am a minor player. I want you to see Who this really is all about.

5. This rawness, this vulnerability, this desperation--it may just be the only time in my life where I understand reality for what it is. It is the time when I am most alive.

Most of the time, I'm pretty capable. I'm funny. I'm a good story teller. I'm crafty. I enjoy my husband and my son. In general, people like me. (I've actually had phone conversations with a friend where all we do for five minutes is talk about how awesome we are. It's a good friendship.) I'm American and rarely in my life have I wanted for much. (I'm pretty sure wanting a maid does not count.) I live 5 minutes from a Dunkin Donuts, Target, Wal-Mart, Michael's, and a Mexican restaurant. So most of the time, I simply go from place to place, not really thinking about the things I do or don't do. And for the most part, I really like this set up. It is comfortable.

But it is life on auto-pilot.

And I was not created to live life on auto-pilot.

I was created to live life intentionally and in relationship. God made me to love and be loved by Him and to be about loving and being loved by the other people He made in His image. And you just can't love other people if you don't risk losing face. Real love ALWAYS takes the path of humility. To the point of humiliation. To the point of death, even.

5. Lastly, and maybe most importantly, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I am very touched that my weakness has brought you strength. The knowledge of this, in turn, encourages me. I'm hoping my acknowledging what is going on here doesn't jinx us all.

What a sweet story it will be to tell Baby Q how he or she was dearly loved and prayed for by people even before he or she was born. That truly he or she was conceived by God through the prayers of so many people. And to those of you who were in on those early rambling emails and stories about our quest for P (now known as Henry), I'll let him know he's yours as well.

Elizabethtown Upside Down

I don't know what I'm doing.

Seriously.

Elizabethtown has gone all wonky. Usually, in my own little world, things stay pleasant because it is MY town. But lately, I'm lost in it. I spend large amounts of my time thinking, "Huh? What am I supposed to be doing now?" Yesterday, after spending the afternoon watching a friend's four kids, instead of driving home, I drove to the old condo. It wasn't until I started to unlatch Henry's car seat that I realized, "Hey, we don't live here anymore. Haven't for a year."

This morning, despite the knowledge I was going to Bible Study and a friend who is a nurse was going to be giving me my shot in the bathroom, I wore a dress. Not the best choice given I could in no way simply drop my pants a little bit for my shot in my hip. But our sons were in a playgroup together, so she was cool with it. (And she's a nurse, right?) And it also must've been a shocker to the visitor in our small group when about 15 minutes before the shot I pulled a bag of syringes out of my purse and said, "Dang it. I forgot my alcohol." So I had to raid a first aid kit for some alcohol wipes before I could load up my shot. I mean, my usual group has been together for 2 years and is used to my wackadoo antics. But this newcomer may have found it disconcerting that one of the small group's leaders was pulling out her needles and searching for alcohol in the church. And then mid-injection, I heard the door to the women's bathroom open. Imagining the shock of coming into the bathroom, seeing my dress hiked up, me bent over the sink, and a 7 month pregnant lady giving me a shot, I simply yelled out, "Warning: flesh!"

And after Bible Study I always have lunch at the church with my 2 best buds, Robin and Ann. I stroll Henry across the church parking lot to the Mediterranean Bakery and pick up our food. However, this week Robin is living la pura vida in Costa Rica, so I thought it'd be just me, Auntie Ann, and the pickle. But apparently Ann had forgotten to tell me that she was having lunch at the church with her small group. And because they are gracious, the group invited me to join them.

I just looked at them. I was holding on for dear life to the handlebar of H's stroller, wondering what to do next.

"I don't understand," I said.

"We're going to eat in the fellowship hall," Ann said.

"Uh-huh."

"You can eat with us."

"Uh-huh."

"Leave Henry here. Go get your food. You're going to go the Med and then come back here."

I looked at Ann, who will be 37 weeks tomorrow, and thought--do you think she knows he needs a high chair? What will she feed him? I didn't bring any food. Usually we eat upstairs in the work room.

I liken it a bit to reading a page and then losing your place so you have to start over again. Or how I still sometimes have to sing the alphabet song in my head to figure out what comes after L and if you were to distract me somewhere around H I'd have to start back again. My usual routine was demolished, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do next.

I did manage to get us some food, but even during the meal I was in a bit of a haze. Not quite sure who I was supposed to be talking to, and wishing that it was just me, Ann, and Robin so I wouldn't have to worry about what was or was not inappropriate to talk about. Mainly, so I could talk about my girls parts at length without judgement or consequence.

So if you try to talk to me, please pretend that I'm a deaf, foreign, toddler. Speak slowly, loudly, and use small words. You may even have to do what I do when Henry is lost in Henry County (ie playing at the train table, not the actual Henry County in Southern VA where my grandpa was sheriff). Place your hand on my arm, put your face about three inches from my head and tell me to look at your eyes so you know I'm listening. Then repeat your comments. Several times. You may even need to take me by the hand, and, with your hands on mine, have me do that which you want me to do.

I'm pretty overwhelmed with the fact that in two days we're having our embryo transfer. Not overwhelmed with fear or anything. I know God is going to do His thing. I know my heart and my family are in Capable Hands. It's just I'm having trouble remembering to breath in and out and find food. And you know that Elizabethtown is located near the Island of Sodor (where Thomas the Tank Engine lives) when you find yourself in prayer saying, "Jesus, you are causing confusion and delay." But if memory serves me right, I am in good company when it comes to being perplexed about the movements of our Risen Lord.

I think this happened last time, but I was only trying to keep track of myself so being lost in Elizabethtown was alright. Nothing that picking up a book and sitting on the couch couldn't handle. Now Elizabethtown has a permanent population of 2. And Henry seems to understand that things are askew and is not liking it. Friends have offered playdates and to take him for the afternoon, but really, trying to figure out just what would be helpful to me is more than I can deal with right now. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to go to a seminary professor's retirement party and then to some high school alumni dinner and I'm pretty sure that I should do neither of these things. But I also don't want to be alone with myself and Henry either--that seems more daunting. If I go and do these things there will be food provided and other people to tell me what I'm supposed to be doing next.

Sloan and my sister sometimes joke that what I need more than a husband is a handler. And I do. I need a handler. Big time.

After nap time, I think I am going to leave the parenting in the capable hands of Curious George. After all, he's got four of them.

Al-bert, Al-bert, Aaaaal-bert! (As sung in Bye Bye Birdie)

Well, people, it's on. We have officially erased the pencil ink and taken out the sharpie--my embryo transfer will be next Thursday, May 7th. I saw on a church billboard the other day that May 7th is also National Prayer Day. I'm thinking this bodes well for us (although I'm pretty sure it is just delusions of grandeur that is leading me to believe everyone will be praying for me to get pregnant.)
The shots begin this Saturday. It should be interesting this time around with the shots as I'm enlisting both the doctor's office and some friends to cover the days when Sloan is out of town with work. So if you see me in the church bathroom next Tuesday with my fanny exposed and a friend armed with a needle, do not be alarmed. It's just the body of Christ coming together to conceive our child. Just another subtle reminder that this next child, like Henry, really belongs to His family and is just chilling out in our family in between now and eternity.
In other news, the weather report for Elizabethtown--pollen induced itchy throat and hormone induced acne, with a mild case of train mania. In the tradition of large storms, I have taken to naming my zits. (This tradition began in high school where my best friend and I had zits named Billy and Todd.) The newest zit is named Albert. And he is ginormous and in the middle of my cheek. My darling husband told me that my zit made me look like young. To which I responded, "So you're saying I normally look old?" (The train mania is because I am now spending large amounts of time coming up with the awesomest train track/building scenarios. The island of Sodor has never looked so cool. In order to do this successfully, I must play with my trains when Henry is asleep. That's right people, I'm playing with trains. Choo-choo!)
We've also made a compromise about the bed. Due to Sloan's errant crown, we had to trek down to NC for a dental visit to my dad. And Henry slept in my old toddler bed while we were at Gigi and Papa's. He did awesome. So we brought it back with us and are setting it up this evening before bedtime. I was a bit worried that it might be rickety because it is an antique, but my dad reminded me that back in the day they made all furniture out of actual wood.
Henry was also a champ this morning at his 2 year check up. And for those mom's out there with kids younger than 2 yrs old, get excited--no shots required at the 2 yr check up. SCORE!!! But his stats are thus--28.8 lbs, 36 inches, and 39.5 cm in head circumference. So yes, he needs a 3T for the length of his shirt, but can still rock the 12-18 month shorts.
Perhaps he is more of a string bean than a pickle...

T Minus 18 Days

Yesterday, my facebook status was thus: "Elizabeth Johnson Phillips feels like she is taking crazy pills. Oh wait, she is. And they are giving her hot flashes."

It's on, people. And by it, I mean the craziness. I'm not so sure if it is the hormones I'm taking to prep me for my frozen transfer or if it is simply that I now have a good excuse for my normal craziness and so my ego has called shotgun, letting id have a chance behind the wheel. Pending my ultrasound next Monday, my frozen transfer (also known as the day I get to take my Valium) will be Thursday, May 7th. Having been put into various holding patterns whilst trying for Henry, I have learned to write this date in pencil. But it is on the calendar, nonetheless.

The craziness manifests itself in various forms. First, in general snappiness. As in I snapped at my sweet Sloan for letting the pots and pans soak in the sink, rather than praise him for letting me sleep in an extra 30 minutes on Sunday morning and oh yeah, emptying and filling the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. Then, upon recognizing that I'm a shrew of a wife, the second wave of craziness hit.

The crying. Because I'm a horrible wife. And why does he even love me when I am so mean to him? And then, when at church the sermon is on the road to Emmaus and I remember how Sloan and I fell in love, I cry even more. (Sloan and I met at a Recreational Ministries conference in Montreat. At the end of the week, the scripture Luke 24:13-35 was read and then we were paired off to walk a path and instructed to discuss the ways in which God had opened our eyes to Him and then at the end of the path, we took communion with our partner. I was paired off with Sloan. I have no idea what we talked about. I only remember taking communion with him at the end. I ripped off my chunk of bread and dipped it into the chalice of wine, and suddenly I knew I was standing before my husband. Despite the fact that we'd met only a couple days before.) So I'm crying and crying at church. Which led me to the following act at lunch.
Ordering a JUMBO strawberry daiquiri.(You know the giant glass normally refered to as a fish bowl? Yeah. That's the one I ordered on a Sunday afternoon.) This did not really help with the crying, because I cried at lunch when our server brought me a beef enchilada rather than a cheese enchilada. When I tried to explain to our server what was wrong, it went something like this--
"I wanted a cheese enchilada. I think you got confused because I ordered my son's cheese enchilada right after I ordered my Speedy Gonzales." The waiter flips to our order and says, "No. Beef." And then I start crying. "But I never would've ordered beef. We come here every week and I always order the same thing. Ask him, he's usually our waiter, and it is always cheese. But it's okay." So the waiter leaves. And then, when 5 minutes later I realize that I have not, in fact, asked for a cheese enchilada to replace the offending beef, I cry again. Enter Sloan who flags down our usual waiter and asks for a cheese enchilada.
The booze also did not help with the hot flashes. And because the back of my house is windows, walking around in various states of undress is not really an option. I'm reduced to boxer shorts and tank tops and cranking the thermostat to 65.

So if you decide to visit Elizabethtown, you may want to bring a sweater. And a sugar-rimmed glass.