Update: Diet, Week One

I have been following my new diet plan for one full week now, and my goal for this week was to lose two pounds. Here is my progress...

I managed to lose one pound over the week, and I feel about the same as I did a week ago. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't lose the two pounds that I wanted to, but overall, I feel pretty good about my overall adherence to the plan. And, as Aaron pointed out, one pound lost is certainly better than a pound gained, and now I am below the 150 threshold, so I feel pretty darn good about that. Here are the good, the bad, and the ugly from this week:

The Good

-I managed to get my 64 ounces of water in each day, which I had thought would be next to impossible. Sure, my visits to the bathroom became much more frequent (and I was left wondering if the weight loss that supposedly comes from drinking all of this water was actually a result of sprinting to the bathroom every hour), but I'm actually starting to find that if I don't drink tons of water, I feel thirsty and dehydrated.
-I kept snacking to a bare minimum at work and I was successful in avoiding sweets and junk food. I was very proud of myself today when a co-worker brought in a pan full of very tasty-looking bars and I didn't even try them. I did eat McDonald's one night last week, but I ordered a Happy Meal with the apple dippers instead of fries. I also made good food choices when dining out with co-workers at lunch.
-I've been using the stairs at work instead of the elevator. The first few times I scaled the four flights of stairs up to my office, I was surprised at how winded I was, but today I found that the trip up was starting to feel easier.
-I made some really good meal choices over the past week. Aaron and I made some really tasty salads and if I was still hungry afterwards, I would make a bowl of butter-free popcorn to share with Grace, or I would have another glass of water to feel fuller.

The Bad

-We did go out to Cafe Lulu one night last week, and that ALWAYS involves overeating. Still, I don't feel horrible about it because I only ate half of my entree and only drank one sangria (which is truly a feat in and of itself). However, Aaron and I split an order of Bleu Lulu chips, and I'm pretty sure that bleu cheese dressing that went with it was full fat.
-I didn't have time to get in an extended session of exercise at all last week. It was a crazy week family-wise, with the usual running around and shuttling Grace to and fro, so sadly, my goal of getting at least one good night of exercise in wasn't met. Better luck this week, I suppose.

The Ugly

-Two words: Ladies' night. I went out with two of my work colleagues who also happen to be two of my all around favorite ladies, and we ate, drank, and were merry. I totally exceeded my one drink per day limit, and when I have a few drinks, I get the munchies, so I also overate big time on Friday night. Deep fried macaroni and cheese bites, boneless buffalo chicken wings, and half of a reuben sandwich. Yummy? Yes. Bad for the waistline? You betcha.
-Two more words: Bastille Days. Aaron and I took Gracie down to Bastille Days on Saturday, and so naturally I had to get into the spirit of the festival and have a beignet. And some Cedar Crest ice cream. And a beer. And reuben rolls. And cheese fries. And a wine. And the rest of Grace's chicken fingers. For me, festivals generally equal eating copious amounts of food that is terrible for me while justifying it with, "But, Bastille Days only comes around once a year!" Yes, well, so does Mexican Fiesta. And Festa Italiana. And German Fest. And Summerfest. You get the picture.

I think the biggest thing that I learned over the past week is that it's easy to eat well and stay within the plan's guidelines during the week, when I have my work routine and I'm not dining out all the time. My problems begin on the weekend, when I don't feel like cooking or staying in, and then we decide to head out on the town. That's when the trouble starts. So, this weekend, we will be visiting friends and I am going to make a conscious effort to pay extra close attention to what I am eating (and drinking) so I can ensure that I'm not gorging myself. That will be my goal for this week--I will eat sensibly all week AND over the weekend, and I will drop two more pounds by next Monday.

Oh and as promised, here's a pic of the new hair color...I highlighted it yesterday, so it's a bit lighter today than it appears in the photo, but I think it's totally hot:

Festival Grace

Man, I love Milwaukee. One of the coolest things about Brew City is the awesome festivals that take place around the city each summer. Obviously Summerfest is the biggest and the best, but my favorites are actually the ethnic festivals. I'll take any excuse to eat ethnic food and drink exotic drinks, but it's also a lot of fun to listen to ethnic music and learn things about different cultures, and sometimes just the people-watching makes the trip worth it.

This summer, I decided early on that I wanted to attend as many festivals as possible, and I wanted to get Gracie involved. She LOVED Summerfest, and today, Aaron and I took her down to the city's French Festival, Bastille Days.

Bastille Days is one of the city's only (if not the only) festival that doesn't charge an admission fee, so it's always interesting to see the mix of people that come. Since today was such a beautiful summer day, tons of people turned out and it was so nice just strolling down the streets downtown, smelling all of the yummy food smells, listening to the sounds of various musical performances, tasting all of the scrumptious food (beignets...mmm), and watching the city come alive around us.

As we were sitting down in Cathedral Square eating our lunch, I told Grace that I was having a good time at the festival with her, and Grace said, "I love coming to these with you. It's so fun. I love to watch EVERYTHING." When I asked her if she wants to go to more festivals this summer, she exclaimed, "Oh yes! I love coming to festivals with my family." And at that moment, I fell in love with my child all over again.

Kid, you're gonna do well in this family.

Yep, I Changed My Blog Layout...Again

I wasn't a big fan of the three-column format of my previous blog layout--the reading pane was too narrow and all of the scrolling was annoying to me, so I got me a new layout, and I like it.

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Dyed my hair tonight AND had my eyebrows tinted today. It's been a big day for me. Thankfully, this time when I came home with darker eyebrows, Aaron did NOT look at me and say, "Your face looks different," and then proceed to go to the bar. Tonight, he told me that they look nice and gave me a kiss on the forehead. I like that reaction much better. Granted, the tint that Joey the salon boy used this time was much lighter and therefore the change was much less drastic, but it was still nice to have a positive reaction from the hubs. Not sure about the hair color yet, though...my hair is still wet and piled under a towel, and Aaron just touched the towel with one of Grace's magic wands and simultaneously said, "Your hair is purple," so I'm a little afraid to look under the towel. Photos are forthcoming.

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Today is the second full day of the new diet plan, and so far, things are going all right. My one major slip up thus far was supper tonight. Aaron suggested hitting Cafe Lulu for supper, and the self-discipline part of my brain shut down and all I could think of was sangrias and Bleu Lulu chips, so I acquiesced and the next thing I knew, we were piling in the car and heading to Lulu. The silver lining in all of this is that this was the first time that I have ever gone to Lulu and didn't devour every scrap of food on my plate, and I limited myself to one sangria, and that CERTAINLY is the first time that has happened. Progress is progress, I suppose.

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Speaking of progress, yesterday at work one of my friends announced that her sister had just had a baby, and I was surprised to find that I felt honestly happy for her as I congratulated her on being a new auntie. I still felt a bit like I had been kicked in the stomach, but I didn't want to curl up on the floor and weep. Instead, I let myself feel happy instead of dwelling on my own sadness. This is good. Maybe there is some sort of serenity on the other side...

Fat Pants

Is it a bad sign when your fat pants become just pants? How about when the extra-stretchy gauchos that you only wear when extremely bloated or premenstrual (or both) become the pants you throw on with relief after spending all day squeezing yourself like a sausage into the dress pants that fit like a glove two months ago?

This is where I am at, folks. I'm back at just about the same weight I was at when Aaron and I met. That was 2005, and I had a sixteen-month-old, so I was still losing the last few pounds of my baby weight. This is 2008, and my baby is now a four-year-old. I turned in my baby weight excuse card a couple of years ago, so I can't blame this on that anymore. And, without the motivation of being in a new relationship and worrying about my new boyfriend seeing my wobbly bits if we decidenot to turn off every light in the city when we were gettin' busy, it's a lot easier to justify eating that extra slice of pizza or drinking that extra beer. I've gotten comfortable...too comfortable.

Yes, this is my fault. I lead a sedentary existence. Almost my entire work day is spent sitting on my dupa in front of my computer--the only exceptions are those brief moments when I walk to the bathroom or the kitchen or a conference room for a meeting. When I get home at night, I am up and about making dinner or doing laundry or putting things away, but when those things are done, I'm back on my butt, doing puzzles with Grace or watching TV or reading books. Much of our weekends are spent in the car, sitting again, traveling to visit family or friends or running around the city. Often I feel as though I don't have enough time to accomplish nearly all of the things I want to in a day, and priority-wise, exercising falls far below parenting and doing laundry and preparing meals and cleaning up the house and gardening. I get up at 5:30 each morning the way it is, so getting up even earlier and exercising before work seems out of the question when I'm totally exhausted as it is.

Then there's the other part of the equation--food. It's ironic...I worry so much about what goes into Grace's mouth but I don't think much about what goes into mine. I travel quite a bit, for both work and pleasure, and fast food is often too convenient to pass up. I love going to lunch with friends or going out for a girls' night, both of which always involve hitting up a favorite local eatery and eating to my heart's content. And then there are the summer festivals, the holiday weekends, the sporting events...all of which include tasty treats like brats and beer and delicious ethnic foods. The part of the brain that forces some people to pass up food in the interest of remaining trim and healthy? I don't have that mechanism...I roll my eyes at those people. And, naturally, what goes better with a good meal than a good drink? I shudder to think about how many calories I'm pouring down my gullet with each amaretto sour or Leinie's Summer Shandy.

Of course, genetics play a part in all of this as well. I do have a few skinny minnies in my family, but most of us are on the curvy side. I came to grips long ago with the fact that no matter how hard I try, I'm never, ever going to be a size 2. I probably won't ever be a size 6 or 7 either. It's just not in my genes. So I often ask myself why I should kill myself trying to attain the seemingly unattainable. What's the point?

I know that I'm not obese. I know that for my height and age, I am pretty average as far as weight goes. I know that there are many, many women (and men) that have a much, much harder time than I do losing weight, and they actually TRY. To them, I probably sound like a big whiner who should just get off my kiester and stop complaining already. But, I do also know that I am overweight and I am slowly gaining, and that is a slippery slope that is all too easy for me to tumble down. I know I am not as healthy as I should be. My BMI puts me well into the "overweight" category and if I don't watch it, I'll be back where I was seven years ago, in a dietitian's office planning out my daily menus and being lectured on my terrible eating habits.

One of my good friends recently hit a milestone in her life--she lost 100 pounds, and she didn't do it by following some fancy diet or taking pills. She ate sensibly, exercised, and kept track of her progress. I don't do well on diets and hate counting points or calories, so her method sounds pretty appealing to me. Using her as inspiration (you totally rock, Mo), I have developed a plan to (hopefully) help me get back to where I want to be:

-Call the family doctor and have blood work done. I have had thyroid disease for the past several years, and if my thyroid is out of whack, any amount of dieting or exercise that I do will be futile. I need to make sure my counts are where they should be.

-No more beer or mixed drinks, except on VERY special occasions (girls' night out does NOT count). If I want to have a drink at night, I will have ONE glass of red wine (hey--it's good for the heart). Same goes for soda, even diet soda. When I cut soda a couple of years ago, I dropped ten pounds.

-No more fast food. Period. When traveling, I will pack sensible snacks. When eating out, I will choose smaller portions or food off of the "lighter fare" menus.

-Small portion sizes at home. I will stop eating on big dinner plates and opt instead for eating off of a salad plate, and when the food on that plate is gone, I am done eating. Nighttime snacking will be limited to butter-free popcorn or something else high in fiber and low in fat and carbs. Drink 64 ounces of water per day.

-Exercise when able, even if doesn't seem like it'll make a huge difference. Instead of taking the elevator up to the office, walk up the four flights of stairs. Instead of parking in the nearest possible spot, park in the back of the lot. Take a ten-minute walk during lunch instead of surfing the net. Buy the Wii Fit game (if I can find it) and exercise after Grace goes to bed at night. Do more yard work. Opt to walk or bike instead of drive if possible. Get the family involved.

-Chart my progress and be realistic. This means weighing myself once a week and expecting to see a one to three pound loss instead of jumping on the scale twice a day and flipping out about each eight ounces that I gain. Measure success not just by weight loss, but also by the way that clothes fit and look. Blog about successes and failures to keep myself accountable. Set achievable goals and meet them.

Ok, so here is my first goal. Today is Monday July 7th. I weigh 150 pounds. Provided that my thyroid level is in the normal range, by this time next week, using the methods outlined above, I will be at or below 148 pounds, and I will be feeling a little more comfortable in my pants. (I realize that is a vague goal--I should say something like, "I won't feel the need to unbutton my pants immediately upon sitting down.")

I'm actually (shockingly) kind of excited about this. I know that it's not going to be easy, but the thought of fitting comfortably into my pants again and the prospect of feeling good about my weight again are enough to push me forward. Wish me luck!

The Importance of Being Perky

Yesterday, I completed a rite of passage. I bought my first push-up bra.

For girls like me that are well-endowed upstairs, finding a good, quality bra that offers sufficient support is like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Sure, good and supportive bras are out there for us ladies with a larger-than-average rack, but you usually have to be willing to fork out some serious dough to purchase one and the bras themselves are about as attractive as my hairdo after camping in the middle of the hot, humid summer without showering for three days straight. The color selection of the bigger bras is just as bad--the only choices for bras over the size of 38D are white, black, taupe, and flesh. The one time I managed to find a coral-colored bra in MY SIZE, I snapped it up right away even though it wasn't on sale and I had to spend twice as much as I wanted to.

The thought of buying a push-up bra to further hoist up my girls has always been ridiculous to me--after all, if I pushed them up much further, I wouldn't have a neck anymore. Well, as Aaron so helpfully pointed out to me today (as I was complaining about my metabolism), I am getting a little older. Gravity is starting to work its magic and my once perky boobs are saggy...I never thought the day would come. My boobs have packed their bags and decided that they've had it with living up here. They're moving south to retire. Sad. Over the past couple of weeks and after much time spent in the mirror lamenting my breasts' slow journey south, I have been promising myself that my next bra purchase would be an undergarment that would lift the girls back up to where they were about ten years ago, no matter the cost.

Yesterday, one of my friends and I ventured across the street to the mall during our lunch break, and lo and behold, Victoria's Secret was having their semi-annual sale. I have historically been a Victoria's Secret avoider because they don't carry the bra size that I generally wear, and I think that, for the most part, their other stuff is ridiculously overpriced. But, a couple of months ago, this same friend convinced me that I should try a different bra size--one band size smaller but one cup size bigger--because I was finding that my bras were always cinched as tight as they would go but didn't offer any real support up front. So, I tried this new size and...*angels singing*...I can now enter the hallowed aisles of Victoria's Secret in search of a bra for the first time since my freshman year of college.

Anyway, back to yesterday. After some searching through the clearance bra bins at Vicki's, I found a decent looking bra (in black, but it's better than white) in my "new" size and I noticed that it had some extra padding on the underside of the cups...the famous push-up bra. Gasp. Did I dare try it? I looked down at my sad, saggy chest, gathered up my courage, looked at the price tag and noticed that with the sale price I would save 50% on this marvel of modern invention, and marched up to the counter to pay. I purchased my first push-up bra.

The bra sat in the bag at my desk at work all afternoon, and it took just about all of the restraint that I had not to pull it out and run to the bathroom to try it on to see how it looked. When I finally got home after work, I pulled my new treasure out of the bag and showed it to Aaron. He looked at it for a moment, then felt the padding on the cups and asked, "What is this?" Clearly, it was time for the two of them to be properly introduced. I ran upstairs, whipped off my shirt and crappy supportless bra, and tried my new one on. Thankfully, it was all that I thought it would be. When I inspected the state of things in the mirror, I was pleased to see that the girls had been forced back up to their pre-sag location, and, as an extra bonus, the bra is comfortable as hell. Beauty, mate.

So, I spent most of my work day today shirking my duties and thrusting my chest into the cubes of my girl friends, displaying my conversion from saggy to perky. Some of them were like, "Yeah Sara, push-up bras have been around for a while, get over it," while my true friends were, like my new bra, supportive and wonderful. Even Aaron looked at me tonight with a certain gleam in his eye and said, "Wow. They ARE perky."

My eyes are up here, buddy.

That's Like, Totally Heavy

Grace, on the way to run some errands this morning:

"Well, if we don't know where we're going, then we're not there yet."

Wow, toooooooooootally right on Grace. The kid has achieved Zen at age four.

The Power of Sleep

It is 7:58 p.m., and Grace has been asleep for about thirty minutes. I can't believe it. This is the same girl that fights tooth and nail to stay up until 8:30 every night.

Tonight started out the same as the past few nights have. I picked Gracie up from day care, and on the way home she was already displaying signs of being overtired and super, super crabby. As soon as we got home, she plopped on the couch and all she wanted to do was sit on my lap and drink some juice. Aaron and I then took Grace to Target (where else?) to buy some new shoes for her and some time during the ten minute drive to Target, Grace fell SOUND asleep. When we got to Target and woke her up, it was clear that Aaron and I had our work cut out for us. Gracie did NOT want to wake up, and she let us know by yelling at us when we tried to help her fasten the safety belt in the shopping cart and sticking her tongue out at us when we told her that she wouldn't get to pick out a treat if she was sassy. Three temper tantrums (and two new pairs of shoes) later, we were heading to grab some subs for supper and eventually we headed home for the night.

I got Gracie ready for bed and she and I settled together on the couch for some snuggle time before bed. I told Gracie that I needed to get her washed up and that I needed to trim her fingernails before bed, and she flipped out, flailing around on the couch and begging me to leave her alone. At this point, I had had enough drama for the evening, and I said, more as a threat than anything, "Do you want to go to bed?" Much to my surprise, she stopped crying and said, "Yes." In total disbelief, I gathered Grace up in my arms, along with her blankie and her sock monkey, and carried her up to bed. Less than ten minutes later, she was fast asleep, and I was left wondering what the hell I was going to do with an extra HOUR of free time tonight.

So, I think that Gracie is just really and truly exhausted. Eliminating her daily nap has taken more of a toll on her than I ever thought it would. Who knew an hour and a half of nap time could do so much? The only time in Grace's life when she has ever gone to bed at 7:30 at night is when she is extremely ill, and since she's not sick at all, I am taking this as a strong signal from my daughter that she needs a schedule adjustment and that her bedtime needs to be moved up. Got it, kiddo, loud and clear.

We'll see how she does tomorrow, but the relief that she displayed tonight when I asked her if she wanted to go to bed was enough for me to be sure that this is what she needs to feel like herself again. Now, what to do with that extra hour at night? "Lost" reruns anyone??

The Formidable Fours

The Formidable Four's...they're the new Terrible Two's. Fasten your seatbelt, Mama. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

Grace went through the classic Terrible Two's phase from about sixteen months until age three--she had two to three major tantrums per day, sometimes more. These were the tantrums that you read about in books--kicking, screaming, inconsolable crying tantrums that couldn't be dealt with effectively no matter how hard I tried. She tested me in every way that she possibly could for almost a year and a half, then suddenly one day, right around her third birthday, she turned into a preschooler, ready to potty train and displaying a completely new attitude. She had a much larger vocabulary, so she was able to express herself easier, she was more independent, and the tantrums were a thing of the past. Hallelujah.

Mwaaahhh haaaahhh haaaahh...(twisting evil pencil mustache). Or so I thought.

Recently, I've noticed a troubling pattern forming in my child and tantrums are back, with a new twist--sassiness. Perhaps it's because the teachers in Grace's room at day care have stopped making the kids take naps. Frankly, I've never heard of such a stupid idea...why wouldn't the day care teachers want a two-hour break in the afternoon and why are they risking having a bunch of overtired kids come 4:00pm?? In the interest of preparing the kids for K4 in the fall, they have stopped letting the kids take naps during the day, and Grace is definitely showing the effects of it.

Or, maybe Grace is sensing the stress and sadness that I have felt over the past month or so since learning of the miscarriage. Lord knows I haven't always been Miss Sunshine and I wonder if Grace is reacting to me. I have tried to hide things as best as I could from her, but sometimes some of the feelings snuck out...I'm only human. Maybe it's the nap thing and the emotional roller coaster that we've all been on. Maybe it's neither and she's just going through a developmental phase. Either way, I'm bracing myself for what's to come.

Here's an example of what has happened lately. Yesterday at church, we were excited because the theme of the service was "All Music Sunday" and since Gracie loves listening to music, we figured she'd be totally into the service and we'd be able to enjoy it as a family. (Is it called a service when it's a Unitarian church? Actually, it's not called "church". It's a "society". I have no clue--I'm new to this Unitarian thing, but so far, so good.) About five minutes into the "gathering", Grace decided that she was totally not down with the whole music thing and took out some colors that I had packed and I offered to give her my paper fan that the "society" furnished for her to color on. She sat on the floor in a huff and demanded her OWN fan--mine was obviously flawed in some way, making it unsuitable for her artistic renderings. After telling her that no, I was not getting up in the middle of the "gathering" to get her a new fan, she pouted for a few minutes but then decided that a used, flawed fan was better than no fan, so she commenced coloring. A few serene moments passed, and then she got bored with coloring, so she took to paging through the hymnals for entertainment, but apparently she was turning the pages too loudly, because soon her paging was drawing gawks and sighs and stares from the clearly uptight old bag sitting in front of us. I asked Grace to turn the pages quietly, and she had a meltdown. She slipped snakelike down to the floor, sobbing silently in her folded arms and when I attempted to pick her up, her body went limp and jello-like and I broke a sweat trying to get her onto my lap. After wiping her tears, I held her for a few minutes when she took the hymnal out AGAIN and started paging through, loudly enough to elicit more stares and sighing (seriously, get over yourself, lady) and I took the book away from her once and for all and offered to color quietly with her, but Grace wasn't having it. She slid back down to the floor, started crying much louder this time, and when I tried to pick her up to take her out of church, she grabbed the underside of the pew so tightly that I couldn't pry her fingers off. She remained there for the rest of the "gathering", weeping just loud enough for those right around us to hear and get extremely annoyed with us.

Finally, mercifully, the "gathering" ended and we decided to cut our losses, skip the church tour that we were wanting to participate in, and head home. On the way out of church, Grace grabbed a Welcome Packet (the same packet we snagged on the way out of church a few weeks ago) and insisted on taking it home. After telling Grace no, we don't need ANOTHER envelope full of Unitarian brochures, she broke down AGAIN, melting to the floor in a heap of sobbing child. I was determined just to get her the hell out of the building, but again, she went totally limp and made it impossible for me to pick her up, so Aaron picked her up, put her over his shoulder, and carried her out of the building.

So, here we were, on a beautiful Sunday morning, hauling a SCREAMING four-year-old down the street. First, when Aaron was holding her, Grace was yelling for me, and when I held her, she was screaming that she wanted to get down. When I put her down, she stood in the middle of the sidewalk and refused to move. So, we started over again, with Aaron carrying her, then me, then the sidewalk standoff. Ten minutes later, we had managed to transport her the two blocks from the church to the car, and we were on our way home.

It was like that ALL DAY yesterday. I cried after Grace went to bed last night.

I was hoping today would be better, but I was wrong. Tonight, the sassiness kicked in with full force. Here is an example of a conversation that we had tonight, but the same type of thing has occurred several times over the past couple of weeks:

Me: It's time for bed now.

Grace: Well, I'm not going to bed.

Me: Yes you are. It's bed time. Let's go.

Grace: I'm not coming. I'm staying right here (on the couch). You can't make me. You're being sassy.

Me: (Silence...anger and frustration building) Let's go. It's bedtime.

Grace: (With gravitas) You're not my friend anymore. I'm not going to play with you. I won't follow you to bed. You're sassy. You have to go to bed now. (Storms off...fade to black)

OMG!!! What happened to my baby who loved to snuggle with me at bedtime and read stories and quietly drift off to sleep? How do I react to this? Where did this sassiness come from? I think that I am a good parent who has taught Grace boundaries and I have taught her what is acceptable behavior and what isn't...who is this child??

Please tell me that this is just a blip on the radar. Please tell me this ISN'T a full-blown phase. Last night, Aaron and I took Grace out for dinner and ice cream, and as she was having a meltdown because there wasn't enough ketchup on her plate, I looked over at a younger couple with a newborn and thought, "Savor the days when they can't talk yet..."

Counting My Blessings

Well, I knew ever since we found out almost four weeks ago that we were having a miscarriage that this day would come, and it has. The medication that my doctor gave me two weeks ago did the trick, and things are truly over now. The biggest feeling that I am experiencing right now, other than sadness? Loneliness. It probably sounds odd, but when I was pregnant with Grace, it was so cool knowing that I was carting this little person around with me everywhere I went, and I enjoyed knowing that she was always around. When I gave birth, I was a little sad that I didn't have her with me every moment of the day anymore. I sorta feel that same way right now. When I found out that I was pregnant at the end of April, I immediately had that sense of...I don't know...shared space and companionship, even though at that point the baby was nothing but a cluster of cells (and, as far as we know, that's all it ever was). Now that things are really and truly over, I am feeling that very same sense of loneliness that I felt after giving birth to Grace, although this time I don't have a newborn to hold. I just have my sadness.

I spent a large amount of time today staring off into space and trying to piece together my feelings. To be completely truthful, I am a little bit relieved. If that sounds horrible, I'm sorry...but not really. I am relieved that I don't have to wonder about when it's going to happen anymore or how it's going to be. I am relieved to know that I'm not irreparably broken, physically speaking. Part of me is also relieved that this didn't happen last week, when Aaron and I were at Bonnaroo. Maybe our baby's spirit wanted to hang out with us for a while longer just to see how great his parents' tastes in music are.

I'm also very sad. Even though I knew in my head that we had lost the baby, in my heart I was still hanging on to the smallest shred of hope that maybe there was a mistake and that all of this sadness and agony was for nothing. Giving up that last modicum of hope is like admitting defeat, and more than that, it's admitting that nothing will bring our baby back. It's over.

I do want to move past this and feel better. Coming home from vacation has been extremely difficult for both of us--being able to escape reality for a few days was great, better than great, and I've noticed that since coming home, I have lost the ability to care about some things. Oh, I care a great deal about the important stuff--Grace and Aaron--but some of the stuff that I usually obsess about doesn't really matter to me anymore. So what if the laundry that I folded on Tuesday is still hanging out in the laundry baskets waiting to be put away? Who cares if I don't water my plants? We've gotten enough rain anyway. Does it matter that I haven't made the bed all week? What's the big deal if I don't go through the mail every day? The fact that I DON'T care about this stuff is alarming to me...this isn't normal for me. I need to pull myself out of this.

And that's just what I plan to do. I hate it when people look at someone who is truly depressed and say, "Pull yourself up by your bootstraps," but I'm gonna give it a shot. I have hit tough patches before, and although this patch takes the cake, I want to try to whip this on my own. It's not going to be easy, but I have so many blessings. I have the most awesome, beautiful, sweet, amazing daughter. She is my life, and I am so fortunate to have her. I have the most wonderful husband, and over these past few weeks he has shown me more patience and love and encouragement and support than I ever could imagine. He's my rock. I have an amazing support system of family and friends, without whom I'd be lost. And, as difficult as it is to fathom right now, I know that I have another shot at having another baby. A lot of women don't get that second (or third) chance, and I do, and that gives me back that little shred of hope. I am blessed and I will remember that.

Deep breath.

I need to move on now. Move on, but never, ever forget.

Rock Out With Your Sun Block Out -and- The Return of My High School Rock Star Crushes

**Click on the slideshow to the right of this pane to see all of our Bonnaroo photos!!**

Wow…there is so much to say about Bonnaroo 2008 that I’m not even sure where to start. I guess I’ll start with the titles of this post…

Title the First:

It was really, REALLY hot and sunny at Bonnaroo this year, as it is every year, but for some reason I still need to be reminded to wear sunscreen. You would think that after living with albino-like fair skin for thirty years that I would know that I need to apply sun block liberally before going outside for more than, oh, thirty seconds, but sometimes I forget, and I end up with skin that looks like this:

Yep, it’s totally gross, blotchy sunburn skin. And it hurts like hell. I didn’t put sun block on my legs on the last day of the festival because I was wearing a skirt that went all the way to my ankles, and I figured, hey, my legs are covered, I’m all set. Well, it was like 100 degrees that day and while we were sitting on the lawn in full sunlight watching the Rogue Wave show, I hiked my skirt up past my knees to get some airflow going to my lower extremities. And now I suffer. And I’m not just burned there…my scalp is scorched (even though I wore either a scarf or a headband each day) and my forehead and chest are burned as well, despite the fact that I applied SPF 30 a couple of times each day. Sucks to be a redhead.

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Title the Second:

I was a little bit surprised at the choices of headliners at Bonnaroo this year. Generally, Bonnaroo is a jam band hippie festival and so when I saw that Metallica and Pearl Jam were headlining, I scratched my head and wondered whether or not the festival was being redefined. (Although my confusion was cleared up a bit when Metallica stated that as a band they love live music, and all of us Bonnaroo attendees are live music lovers as well, so maybe there aren’t such stark differences after all.) I was also quite excited because there was a point in time, way back in high school, when I was a HUGE fan of both Metallica and Pearl Jam and I was stoked that I’d get a chance to see them live after all these years.

Ok, actually, I had big high school girl crushes on James Hetfield, lead singer of Metallica, and on Eddie Vedder when I was in my long-haired/dangerous/metal head dudes phase back when I was fifteen or sixteen. I spent HOURS staring at the cassette tape insert of the Black Album by Metallica and hoping that one day, James Hetfield would spot me in a crowd and decide that he was madly in love with me and whisk me away forever.

Obviously that didn’t happen, but when I was at the Metallica and Pearl Jam shows this weekend, I closed my eyes and suddenly was a sophomore in high school, wearing a flannel shirt and ripped jeans and playing metal music in my bedroom with the volume low enough so my parents wouldn’t hear. And my crushes on James and Eddie? Alive and well. They rocked my world.

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Other ‘Roo Happenings

Saturday was by far the best live music day of my life, thanks to some great shows by Sharon Jones, Gogol Bordello, and Ben Folds. The three artists are so different musically, but their shows were all high-energy and engaging, so kudos to them for kicking ass. Ben Folds’ show was one of my favorites—he played a great mix of old and new stuff and made sure that his crowd was enjoying the music. Other fantastic shows were brought to us courtesy of Tegan & Sara, Mike Birbiglia (even though he didn’t show up for his autograph signing session), Rogue Wave, Chromeo, The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, and Death Cab for Cutie.

Actually, all of the shows that we attended at the ‘Roo were awesome, with the exception of the Vampire Weekend show. We saw Vampire Weekend at a smaller venue in Milwaukee a couple of months ago, and I enjoyed that show far more than I did the show they did at the ‘Roo. Maybe they are just one of those bands that do better in smaller venues, but their show at the ‘Roo sounded sloppy to me. Don’t get me wrong—I still love them and their music, but this wasn’t their best show.

The big disappointment of the weekend was Kanye West. He was scheduled to play a late night/early morning show after the Pearl Jam show, and his set was all hyped up because it was supposed to be this super cool “glow in the dark” show. So, even though he was slated to play at the ungodly hour of 2:45am on Sunday morning (seriously, whose idea is it to schedule shows at 3am?), I was willing to sacrifice some sleep to go and see him. Aaron and I showed up to the stage where Kanye was scheduled to play at around 2:15, and I decided to lie down on our blanket to catch a quick nap before the music started. A while later (when some moron kicked my foot and woke me up as he was walking past), I looked up at the stage and noticed an alert on one of the screens that said that Kanye’s show was postponed until 3:15. I decided that I could force myself to wait another half hour to see the show, but when another alert popped up at 3:15 stating that his show was pushed back AGAIN to 3:30, I told Aaron that there was no way I was waiting around any longer for a hip hop show when I don’t really love hip hop and I do love sleeping. We headed back to our campsite and I fell asleep shortly thereafter, not really feeling bad at all that I was missing Kanye’s show (I had seen him a couple of years ago at Lollapalooza and wasn’t overly impressed).

Turns out that Kanye didn’t go onstage until 4:40am and the crowd was understandably upset with him. People tell me that he just did his show, didn’t wait for applause in between songs, and didn’t offer any sort of explanation as to why he was two hours late for his show. People were angry about it for the rest of the festival—I heard several Bonnarooers say, “F*%# Kanye!”—and I am REALLY glad that we didn’t decide to wait it out to see his show. You can’t expect fans that pay more than $200 for a festival ticket to wait for you for hours and be excited about it. I know he’s a big name celebrity, yadda yadda yadda, but the hippies were pissed, and they were telling others about it. I am SO boycotting his show at this year’s Lollapalooza.

I was also going to write about how our camping neighbors were total douche bags, but Aaron said that he was going to resurrect his blog just to write about them, so I won’t steal his thunder. And now I have obligated him to do just that, so there you go, Aar. Go write about those hippies.

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Summing Up…

Bonnaroo 2008 was fabulous, wonderful, awesome, marvelous…it was a great time, plain and simple. It was all that I hoped it would be and then some. By far, the best part of the trip was my time with Aaron. It was so cool to step out of our normal “roles”, get away from everything, have some really good talks, and relax. It was exactly the medicine that we needed at this point in our lives.

And, I feel that Sara has made a bit of a comeback. This weekend, I was able to leave Sara the mom/wife/daughter/coworker/grieving miscarriage patient behind and just be Sara the woman, jumping around and singing along and doing the best rendition of the Hippie Noodle Dance that I could. I may not have made a total comeback yet, but the foundation has been laid and I’m feeling a bit better about things. It’s amazing how much perspective can be gained just by stepping away for a bit and catching your breath.

Bonnaroo pictures will be posted soon—as soon as I get caught up on my sleep.

Goin' on Vaca

Tomorrow, Aaron and I are off to Tennessee for a much-anticipated five-day vacation to the Bonnaroo Music Festival in Tennessee! I can’t wait…lots of live music, great food, and a road trip with my hubby. I will miss Gracie so much--five days is the longest that I will have ever been away from her. To help take away the sadness of leaving her for a while, I have made a list of reasons (other than the live music, great food, and the road trip with Aaron) why going to Bonnaroo will be totally awesome:

-Surely Tennessee will be drier than Wisconsin. Over the past few days, we have been slammed by rain and severe weather and flooding. In fact, the flooding is so severe that an entire lake near Wisconsin Dells was overtaken by the flood and some poor homeowners who used to own lakefront property are now the not-so-proud owners of mud hole-front property. Imagine waking up to that. Makes the flooding that we have experienced in our own basement seem like a walk in the park (a wet, musty park, but a park nonetheless).

-Festival atmosphere will be a welcome change from sitting in my bed at night, Googling information on the progesterone-based medication that I am taking (to no avail) to bring on the end of the miscarriage and the beginning of my normal cycles. Still nothing—no sign of anything at all. How is that possible? What is wrong with me?

-My tendency to experience live music-induced euphoria will replace the violent mood swings that I have been plagued with as a result of said progesterone-based medication. Poor Aaron—a special place in heaven surely awaits this man. He has managed to keep a smile on his face even though his wife is up and down and up and down more frequently and less predictably than the price of gas. And I can’t write anything else more about him or I will cry. Again.

(Well, the tears are welling up anyway so I might as well keep going.)

-Time away from home and constant reminders of the miscarriage will hopefully lead to further healing for both myself and for Aaron. I am at the point now where I want to be able to move past this and have a little bit of closure. I know that the pain will never be completely gone, and I still have moments where the sadness is overwhelming, but at least I can see past the grief and I WANT to feel better. A couple of weeks ago, I didn’t even want to feel okay. A little progress is better than none, I suppose, and I think that getting away with Aaron will do wonders for me.

-I’ll be attending my fourth Ben Folds concert. Ooh, I love Ben, almost as much as I love the Decemberists. Ben is my new Dave Matthews, only not quite as hot but with better vocal range.

-Camping! I love camping, and we didn’t get to go at all last summer. I’m very excited about sleeping in a tent and enjoying the outdoors (except if it’s raining—in that case, I am sleeping in the car).

I’ll post pictures when we return. Y’all take care!

Grace at Four Years...and, Thank You

Friday, Grace had her four year checkup, and here's how she measures up!

-Weight: 40 pounds. This puts her in the 90th percentile for her age.

-Height: 42 inches. This puts her in the 90-95th percentile for her age. She grew four inches from last year! No wonder none of her clothes fit!

I have a tall, skinny kid. She certainly doesn't get it from me. She's always been at the top of the charts in this regard, though.

Developmentally, she's right on target. She is doing all of the things that a kid her age should be doing. She dresses herself, she's fully potty trained, she a little question box, asking questions about anything and everything. The doctor asked if she sleeps in her own bed, and I said yes, but had to stifle a little "Ahem" after I said it. She sleeps in her own bed, but it's on the floor right next to our bed. Details, details. We have every intention of starting the process of moving her to her own room, but the events of the past couple of weeks have made it difficult for me to climb that emotional mountain.

Anyway, nothing but good things from the visit (other than the FIVE shots that she had to receive in anticipation of starting four-year-old kindergarten in September). The doctor told me what I already know--that I have a healthy, happy, wonderful kid. In fact, age four is by far my favorite age so far. Grace is able to do many things on her own and wants to at least try to do the rest of the things on her own. She is caring and compassionate and shows that she cares about others' feelings. She loves to read, do puzzles (up to 150 pieces!!), and do art projects. And, we are firmly out of that temper tantrum phase that plagued us from about fifteen months up until she turned three.

Yay Gracie! You're awesome...there are no two ways about it.

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Just wanted to say thanks to all of you who read my blog and have sent support and encouragement my way. You all have made this bearable for me, and I can't thank you enough for your kind words. I thought about discontinuing this blog and blogging in general when I had the miscarriage, because many of my previous posts focused on my short pregnancy and the excitement of trying to conceive. After that, it was almost too painful to have to tell the story of the miscarriage, so I thought about not doing it at all. But, I am glad that I did, and I am glad because of you all. If I hadn't told this story, I would have missed out on all of the support you all have to give. So, thank you so, so much, from the bottom of my heart. I love you all.

You're Fired!

Message from me to my obstetrician: I am going Donald Trump on you. Doctor, you're fired.

Aaron and I had an appointment yesterday with my OB, to follow up on the miscarriage and to talk about "the plan". Over the past ten days or so, since learning of the miscarriage, Aaron and I have both been doing some research and I am fortunate enough to know some peeps that are in the know on obstetric problems and miscarriage, so we came to the appointment prepared with questions and armed with information.

Unfortunately, my doctor sucks. Plain and simple...she totally sucks. She came in (panting and complaining about how busy her day was and neglecting to apologize for making us wait thirty minutes past our scheduled time) and asked, "So, what happened?" After doing some quick interpreting and deciding that she meant to ask, "Have you had any spotting since you were last here?", I told her that I haven't had even one iota of spotting, no cramping, no nothing. The only indicators of the miscarriage were the ultrasound and the lack of any pregnancy symptoms (other than amenorrhea).

After hearing this, my doctor looked back and forth between Aaron and me and said, "Weird," and "I don't know," alternatively at least six times. Then she told me she was going to give me some synthetic hormone pills to bring on a period and get my cycle back on track. And that was it.

I don't know...I guess I was expecting something more than that. Maybe some insight into what possibly happened. With miscarriages, I know that a vast majority of the time you never know what happened. I guess that's okay, but hearing some theories on what happened or some comfort would have been appreciated. Maybe some semblance of a plan would have made me feel better. All that she gave me was the instruction to take this medication--we didn't discuss when I should be expecting my period, when my cycles might be back on track, and when we can start thinking about trying to get pregnant again. When I asked about these things, she told me that my cycles might get back on track "after finishing the medication" and that we can start trying again "whenever".

Red flag--everything that I have read and heard has told me that after a miscarriage, a woman needs to wait one to three months to start trying to get pregnant again, and that she should use birth control until then. My doctor never once mentioned any sort of birth control to me and didn't give me any time frame for trying to conceive again. Honestly, I can't even think about trying to conceive again...I'm not anywhere near that point emotionally (or physically), but some information on that point, especially when I asked about it, would have been helpful.

The last straw was when the doctor was prepared to send me on my way, with this medication that can cause severe birth defects in children if taken while pregnant, without offering to give me a pregnancy test. Yes, she told me ten days ago that I miscarried, but stranger things have happened and Aaron and I have been having unprotected sex ever since I found out I was pregnant and we have no clue if I am ovulating or not. I had to ask for the test, and when I did, my doctor said, "Oh yeah. That might be a good idea." I am all for taking charge of your health care and suggesting options to your doctor, but this seems fundamental to me.

The other deciding factor for me was Aaron's reaction to my doctor. Aaron, who has an innate ability to see the best in every person and every situation, agrees that my doctor sucks. He couldn't deal with her through the rest of this ordeal and possibly through another pregnancy. In fact, several times last night, he told me, "I don't want to tell you what to do and if you like her, you can stay with her, but I want you to find a new doctor." Done.

Luckily, Grace has her four-year checkup this afternoon and I really respect her doctor, so I will be asking her to give me some referrals to new OB's in our network. Ironically, when I told my OB who Grace's doctor was, she was excited and told me that Grace's doctor is one of her favorite people. I'll be interested to see what Grace's doctor has to say about all of this.

Anyway, the pregnancy test that I asked for yesterday was negative, so I'm on the medication. I hesitated to take it because I feel like taking it is admitting that this is over and I am taking the final steps to end it. It's heartbreaking and I feel like some of the grief that I let go over the past few days is creeping back in. It's also a little nerve wracking, because the pharmacist gave me a warning last night that taking this medication could give me PMS times ten.

Oh good. Just what we need in our house...a little more emotion.

Angry in Sioux Falls

Dear Readers:

I am on a business trip in Sioux Falls. Thinking that it might be a good idea for me to get away for a couple of days, on my own, to spend some time reflecting on the loss of the baby and hopefully start to heal a little bit, I decided to go ahead and go on this trip and not cancel it or have a colleague go in my place. Those that know me well know that, during a crisis, I tend to draw myself in and need some space to pull myself together. The fact that this trip comes a week after learning that I am miscarrying seemed to at least serve a purpose in forcing me to take that time away and get that space that I sometimes need.

Of course, this theory might have proven true if I was actually READY to be on my own for a couple of days. I'm not. But, here I am, sitting in a hotel room alone, far from home, and panic is creeping in. I'm not ready to be alone, and the fact that I am is scaring the crap out of me. I am not yet prepared to deal with these feelings of loss on my own. Thank goodness I am going home tomorrow.

In addition to feeling scared, I am also SO PISSED OFF. Everything is making me angry. The idea that I can't actually talk to a human being to set my wakeup call--I have to program it into the phone. The fact that I have cable TV in my hotel room and I have every single news channel known to man except the one station I actually love to watch--CNN. What the hell is the point of having cable around if you can't watch Anderson Cooper 360?!? I don't have cable at home. All that I ask is that when I do have cable around that I ALSO have CNN! Who has CNBC but not CNN? The Holiday Inn in Sioux Falls, that's who!

And don't even get me started on the people who honked and waved at me as I accidentally turned out of the hotel parking lot the wrong way and headed down a one-way street in the wrong direction this morning. I could have jumped out of my car, pulled each one of these people (who were just trying to warn me of impending danger) out of their cars, and kicked their butts.

And then there was the freaky dude in the whirlpool tonight. All that I wanted to do tonight, after a long day of meetings, was to sit in the hot tub for a while and read my book IN PEACE. Nope, not happening for me. Freaky dude starts talking to me about how he tried to read his book in the hot tub but the water kept splashing his book so he had to stop. Guess what? I DON'T CARE. Then, as I got out of the whirlpool to turn the jets back on (whose idea was it to only have 15 minutes on the timer?) I caught freaky dude (who was clearly wearing a wedding ring) leering at me and watching my every move. Sick. I got back into the hot tub and tried to concentrate on reading my book, but freaky dude was sending weird oompa loompa vibes my way, so I covered myself up and hustled back to my room, looking over my shoulder the whole way. Bastard. If I find out that any of you men who read this blog (and I know who you are) go on a business trip, or go anywhere for that matter, and spend your time leering at women who are alone and making them feel uncomfortable, I will hunt you down and cut off your balls. And that's a promise.

Oh, and in addition to freaky dude, there were about ten teenage girls coming in and out of the whirlpool, all giggles and string bikinis. You just wait, skinny girls, till you hit your late 20's and early 30's. Your metabolism will catch up, and you'll be forced to wear a tankini and wouldn't be caught dead in anything with less material than that. You'll be too concerned about things like back fat and scaring small children if you display too much of your wobbly bits.

I'm just so angry. I think anger is somewhere in the grieving process, so this is normal, right? It doesn't feel normal. I have a temper normally, but it's nothing like this. I just want to go home.

Sincerely,
Angry in Sioux Falls

Not Sure How...

...to grieve for my loss.

This is not a baby that I ever held in my arms, or that I ever saw, or whose face I can picture in my mind. This was, technically speaking, a small cluster of cells and, depending on when I actually miscarried, possibly a very small embryo who was just starting to form. What was left of our baby was just a small black spot on an ultrasound. Still, this miscarriage has shaken me to my core. Just because this baby was never born doesn't mean this loss is diminished for me.

It's been five days since we went to the doctor and found out that we lost our baby, and I still am not sure how to grieve for our baby. Over the past five days, I have started to feel a little less devastated. I have gone from crying nonstop to crying just a few times a day, mostly when I can steal a moment to myself. I can put on a happy face--yesterday was Grace's birthday party, with friends from school as well as family, and I'd like to think that those people that didn't know about the miscarriage weren't able to tell that deep down, I am suffering. There are moments when the grief feels like it's going to take over my body--it's a physical thing, and it almost takes my breath away. Then there are times, when I am playing with Grace or when I am immersed in work, that I feel like one day I will feel okay.

So, I am at a loss for how exactly I am supposed to grieve. There is no closure. I still haven't had any physical signs of a miscarriage, other than cramping. That in and of itself is confusing to me and at times, I wonder if this was some sort of mistake, and that the baby is still alive inside me. All that I can do is put one foot in front of the other and carry myself through this as best I can.

Nothing Inside

I'm having a miscarriage.

Tuesday was my first prenatal appointment. Aaron and I arrived at the medical commons and were told upon registering that the doctor (who I hadn't met yet) was running quite late and that we were in for a bit of a wait. No problem, I thought...Grace didn't need to be picked up from day care for a couple of hours yet and there were plenty of magazines to read, so we made ourselves comfortable in the waiting area and enjoyed some quiet reading time.

After waiting 20 minutes or so, a nurse came out and called us back to a room. She told us that she would be asking me a bunch of questions to get information about my medical history since I was a new patient. Afterwards, I would need to wait some more and then I would be able to meet with the doctor. We went through all of the medical history questions, discussed family genetics for both my family and Aaron's, and then the nurse gave us the prenatal nutrition speech (diet, exercise, etc) and told us a little more about the facility where I would be delivering the baby. Standard first prenatal visit stuff.

We were sent back out to the waiting room, and after waiting a bit more, my doctor's medical assistant came out to us and told us that unfortunately the doctor was delayed a bit more. She suggested that I head down to the lab to have my prenatal blood tests drawn while we wait. She gave us the clinic's thick "Information for Expectant Parents" binder to read while waiting and sent us down to the lab. We paged through the binder while we waited and then I had my lab work done, peed in a cup, and soon we were heading back upstairs to the clinic.

Finally, about an hour and a half after our scheduled appointment time, we were called back to see the doctor. The medical assistant weighed me and said, "Let's get your blood pressure before we take you back to the ultrasound room."

Huh? Ultrasound?

I asked the medical assistant why I was having an ultrasound so early (I didn't have one with Grace until I was more than 12 weeks along), and she says that they typically like to do them on the first prenatal visit, but that they don't always have the space or availability to guarantee it for each woman, so it's not something that they don't tell patients when they make their appointment. Cool, I thought. We can see the baby today!

Then, suddenly, something inside me said, "No. I do not want to have this ultrasound." In fact, when the medical assistant took my blood pressure, she asked me, "Are you nervous?" I told her that I was, and she told me my blood pressure was high, something like 140/86. She joked and told me that she would let it slip this time. We walked to the ultrasound room, and waited for the doctor.

While we were waiting, I told Aaron how nervous I was feeling. He asked me why, and I told him that I was nervous that something was wrong. He told me that I shouldn't worry, that everything was okay, and that if it wasn't, that he would be here for me. I remember feeling so nervous that I could have jumped out of my skin. I even toyed with the idea of running out of the room and canceling the appointment. I just had a horrible feeling that something was wrong and I wanted to avoid finding out what it was.

The doctor came in and apologized for our long wait, explaining that she was on call and that she had a patient in labor over at the hospital who was getting ready to push. And then she got paged, excused herself to take the call, and eventually came back in. She quickly scanned the medical history information that her nurse had taken earlier, asked me some questions about my last pregnancy, and noted that I was vomiting earlier this week. She asked me if I had a fever when I was sick and I said yes, I had a low grade fever while I was throwing up. She told me that she thought that the vomiting was not related to morning sickness at all, because of the fever, and that it was probably just a fluke and a coincidence and that hopefully I would escape the morning sickness monster altogether. She also did some quick calculations and confirmed that I was eight weeks pregnant and that my due date would be January 5th. She was excited because I was to be her first '09 mom.

January 5th. I will never forget that date.

And then came the pelvic exam. Aaron stepped out briefly, at my request, because for some strange reason I wanted privacy during this part of the appointment. Over the course of the appointment, I had started to warm up to my doctor. She was young, knowledgeable, and had a good sense of humor. We talked about all of the great restaurants that there are in Bayview, near to our home, and talked about all of the great shopping that there is around my office in Brookfield. The pelvic exam went without incident, and Aaron was called back into the room for the ultrasound.

Aaron and I watched the screen intently, not really knowing what we were looking at, and there was silence in the room for several seconds. Then the doctor said, "Huh." Several more seconds of silence, and then, "I don't see anything inside your uterus." She said it like she was saying, "Huh, I didn't think it was supposed to rain today," or, "Huh, I thought I put my car keys in my purse." Just a tone of mild surprise and wonder.

I closed my eyes, and my stomach dropped. I grabbed Aaron's hand.

Please, look harder, I thought. And she did. She looked harder, showed Aaron and me both of my ovaries, my cervix, and my empty uterus. She showed us where the baby should be, and all that we could see was nothing. Everything looked perfectly normal, except for the fact that our baby was gone. She mentioned a slight dilation of something, and I wish now that I had the presence of mind to ask her what she meant, but I didn't, so that comment remains a mystery. I remember being slightly conscious of the sound of Aaron shifting his weight back and forth on his legs and chewing his gum faster and faster.

All that I could think of at that moment was Aaron. No one deserves to be a dad more than this man. He has loved and accepted Grace as his own daughter, he is a good, good man, he DESERVES this baby. God, I know I have screwed up in my life and if you want to punish me, fine, but DO NOT punish Aaron. Please, God. I couldn't even bear to look at his face, because the disappointment and sadness that I knew I would see in his expression would have been enough to make me lose my shit.

The doctor stood up and told us that there were three possibilities to explain what we saw, or rather, what we didn't see. The first possibility was that this was a normal pregnancy but our dates were off and I wasn't as far along as I had thought. This was a remote possibility because I hadn't had a period for eight weeks and I'm healthy and have relatively regular cycles. The second possibility was that this was a tubal pregnancy and that the doctor was unable to see anything because the ultrasound machine she was using was not super high-tech and she didn't have a good view of my tubes. Again, this was not a very probable explanation, because if my pregnancy was ectopic, chances are that I would have had bleeding or some strong pain by now, and I hadn't had either. The final, most probable explanation was that I had had an early miscarriage and it was just starting so I hadn't had any symptoms yet. The doctor told me that she would order some additional tests on the blood that I had taken earlier in the afternoon and that she would call us that night with the results. If my hCG level was 2000 or more, she would order another ultrasound for the next day at the hospital and take a closer look. If the level was less than 2000, she would have me come back every couple of days for repeat blood tests to follow the levels. Either way, she said, this was most likely not a normal pregnancy and we are losing the baby. Then she apologized because her staff gave us the parenting binder earlier and said that she wished they could have done the ultrasound first.

No shit.

The doctor told us to take as much time as we needed, and left the room. We sat there for a long time, and I let myself cry for a while, and Aaron cried, too. After a few minutes, I realized that we needed to pick Grace up from day care and briefly thought that exactly four years ago, at that moment, I was receiving a call from my obstetrician in Oshkosh telling me that they would be inducing my labor the next day because my blood pressure was too high. Four years after hearing the exciting news that I would be meeting my first baby in less than 24 hours, I learn that my second baby is gone.

Aaron offered to pick Grace up, since I was a mess, and I headed for home. As soon as I arrived, I quickly jumped on Google to look up miscarriage and tubal pregnancies, but soon lost the strength to read the information. I sobbed and sobbed, and then I heard Aaron's truck pull in the driveway. I pulled myself together as best as I could, and got ready to put on a happy face for Gracie. She came in the door and immediately gave me a big hug--Aaron had told her in the car on the way home that Mommy was sad and needed a hug. This was not the first time in my child's life that she has been an immense comfort to me. Seeing her took the edge off of my grief.

I made a call to my parents to tell them what was happening and promised them that I would call back as soon as I heard back from the doctor. I went through the rest of our nightly routine as best as I could, and put Gracie to bed. Just as she was falling asleep the doctor called. She told me that my level of hCG was near zero, and that (thankfully) ruled out a tubal pregnancy. She told me that what was happening was that I had an early miscarriage and that many women in my case would not have even known that they were pregnant, but I took the pregnancy test early enough for the little hormone that I was producing to register. She apologized, told me that there was nothing that we could do, and told me that I should expect to start bleeding and passing tissue over the next week or so (she said she was actually surprised that I hadn't started bleeding yet). She said that the pregnancy was young enough that I should miscarry without any complication, so there shouldn't be any intervention (such as a D&C) needed. She told me to make an appointment to follow up with her in the next couple of weeks and that if I hadn't completed the miscarriage by then, she would give me some medicine to help it along.

So, now we are waiting. Waiting for the end of all of this. My doctor made it seem as though passing the remains of the baby was going to be a bloody and painful process, but after doing some research on my own and talking with some people who know something about this, it's possible that my body absorbed the tissue and that I won't actually need to pass it. I guess that remains to be seen. My appointment is a week from today and as I said, if I haven't at least started spotting by then, my doctor will give me the medicine to help things along.

I am numb. I am devastated. This is quite possibly one of the most difficult things that I have had to face and I'm not sure what to do to make it better. I know that I wasn't pregnant for very long, but we HAD a baby, and now it's gone, and I am grieving. We are grieving.

Happy Birthday Grace

I have heard stories from many moms who say that it took them a while to fall in love with their babies. I consider myself among the luckiest of the lucky--I fell in love with you from the moment I first laid eyes on your perfect little face, and the grip you have on my heart has tightened with each passing day.

You're not a baby anymore...you're a little girl, full of your own personality and verve.
You have the best sense of humor...you make me laugh out loud every single day with the things you say and do.
You're caring...you truly care about people around you, and you show it. You give hugs when someone looks sad. You give little "presents" to make people feel better. You want those around you to feel happy I didn't think a small child was capable of showing such compassion, but you have proven me wrong.
You're smart...you continue to amaze me with the things that you know and you just keep soaking up information, and you look for opportunities to learn. You ask questions and you truly WANT to know the answers.
You're my favorite little snuggle bug...I sincerely look forward to having a chance to snuggle with you each night on the couch, smelling your hair and nuzzling your perfect skin, and I love the little hugs and kisses that you give me every day.
You're fun...I cherish our "girl time", when it's just you and me, just hanging out or shopping or playing. I love chatting with you about how our days went and life in general, just because you're my most wonderful little friend.
You're strong...you and I have been through lots of changes this year--we moved to a new house in a new city, you started at a new day care, we added Aarie to our little family--yet you have consistently shown me that you can go with the flow and you have adjusted beautifully. I am so proud of you.

Four years ago today, my life changed forever. Thank you, Gracie, for bringing me more happiness and love than I could have ever imagined. Happy birthday princess.

Ay, me siento bien feo.

What we have here is a classic case of "Be careful what you wish for..."

I mentioned in an earlier post that I have been troubled recently by the fact that this pregnancy has been relatively symptom-free, and given the fact that my first pregnancy was fraught with every symptom in the book, I joked that I wished I could puke my guts out, just once, so I could feel like this pregnancy is a normal one. Well, today, I got my wish and then some. We had spent last night with my in-laws, since they had a big family get-together/fishing derby for the holiday weekend, and bright and early this morning, I proceeded to puke my guts out. Not once, not twice, but SEVERAL times. The nauseousness was so bad that it woke me up out of a sound sleep and had me sprinting to the bathroom every ten minutes or so, until the contents of my stomach were thoroughly emptied.

Naturally, since I am not a quiet puker by any stretch of the imagination, the whole house was privy to what was happening, including Grace, who, when I told her that sometimes mommies get sick when they have babies in their bellies, decided that the baby was being naughty and needed a time out. I had to agree with her.

So, my in-laws gave me some kind words of encouragement and sent us along on our way home, armed with plastic bags in case I had to heave and we couldn't pull over in time, and we commenced the longest, most uncomfortable three-hour ride home in my life. I managed not to hurl at all until we returned home, thankfully, but after a full day on the couch and only eating a few saltine crackers and sipping on room-temperature water, I feel like crap. My back hurts, my butt hurts, my legs and hips are killing me and I feel like I am on the verge of chuffing again at any moment. Ugh.

Fortunately, I go to the doctor tomorrow, so we will see if she has any words of wisdom for me. I am seriously hoping that the sickness is transient this time, and that I am not sick for 95% of my pregnancy like I was with Grace. Like I told Aaron, I just don't feel mentally prepared for another pregnancy like that.

It is soooo on.

Aaron showed me a photo today on Pitchfork that brought me much delight.


It's a picture of my fav band in the whole wide world, the Decemberists! (mmmmm...Colin Meloy on the far left...). Oh yeah, and Barack Obama is in the middle.

((angels singing))

This photo was posted on Pitchfork and was taken at an Obama rally that took place recently in Portland. This rally hauled in over 75,000 spectators, which blows away Obama's previous rally record of 35,000. Man, I would have loved to be able to attend that event.

Anyway, the thing that inspired me to write about this at 10pm on a school night is the actual article that went along with this photo. You can read it in its entirety here, but basically the article talks about how some Conservatives are downplaying the enormity of this event, stating that "The assumption here, of course, is that the Decemberists played a significant part in enticing those 75,000 people out to that lovely park on that sunny spring day, and that the Times and other "liberally biased" media outlets somehow conspired to ignore the band's presence in order to make Obama look better."

Amusing.

And then, at the end of the article, there is a reference to a piece on the obviously conservative site The Campaign Spot that suggests that the Decemberists are nothing more than a bunch of Communists.

Oh no you didn't. I know you didn't just call my favorite band in the world, a talented group of musicians whose music speaks to my soul a bunch of Commies. I know you didn't do that.

I could go on and on about how this is just another instance of Conservatives tossing around words that evoke negative reactions and emotions for some in order to frighten those people into their movement. Here is their logic: Barack Obama had this group of Commies open for him at his rally, so by default, he must be ONE OF THEM too. But, I won't get too high up on that soap box right now.

But, you picked on my band. I am shaking my fist at you. It is sooooo on.

Feeling Fine

Here's the reason why I have been flipping my shizzy about this pregnancy: I feel great. Other than feeling a little bit tired, having the short bout with cramps, not really feeling like eating much of anything at all, and having some aches in my abdomen after toting Grace around more than I should have this weekend, I feel like regular ol', non-pregnant Sara. Not even my prenatal vitamins are making me sick! I guess I wouldn't be as concerned about feeling as good as I do if I hadn't had such a HORRIBLE pregnancy the first time. When I was pregnant with Grace, I was sick from about week six all the way up until about five hours before I delivered her, and I had just about every other pregnancy symptom in the book, from achy boobs to heartburn to weird food cravings. Well, if my calculations are right and we conceived when I think we did (it's hard to know, since all of the ovulations I took over the course of two weeks in April came back negative and I have no clue when I actually ovulated), I am six weeks along and I feel...great. This should be a good thing, no?

I was actually hoping that my trip to the dentist this afternoon would get my queasiness started, just so I could have a little reassurance. But there I laid, with the dentist elbow deep in my mouth (God, I hate going to the dentist) and the hygienist sucking out my gums with that gross sucker thing and I didn't feel even the slightest bit nauseous. Not even a little gag. Nothing, except for my sweaty back and tense neck muscles that can be traced back to the four syringes full of anesthetic it took to numb my mouth and mascara streaks on my cheeks from when the drilling started and the dentist realized, probably because of my groaning and eventual crying, that he needed to give me EVEN MORE anesthetic. (This is coming from a woman who gave birth without an epidural willingly--this is how much I hate dental work. But that's another story.)

This may be the first time in my life that I have wanted to puke my guts out, just once.

I Need to Clean More

Life has been nutso lately, and my house cleaning has suffered greatly because of it. Over the last few days I have been getting more and more upset about the state of things and I vowed that this weekend, I'd set aside some time to get some serious cleaning done.

Tonight, after a trip to Target to buy a gift for a birthday party that Grace is attending tomorrow, I found a rare, quiet moment to get some quick preliminary cleaning done. Aaron decided to run to the grocery store and Grace was busily working on a new puzzle, so I decided to pick up our living room a bit. Our coffee table had become a landing pad for mail, Grace's art supplies, books, and DVD's. I managed to go through all of the mail and put all of the other stuff away, and I was so proud of myself. In fact, I did such a good job that Grace exclaimed, "Hey! We got a new coffee table! It's so clean!"

Nope, kiddo, that's the same one we've had for months. You just don't recognize it without all of the junk on top of it.

Toothy

Today I chipped a tooth while eating some crackers at work. These were just your average, run-of-the-mill, Wheat Thin-type crackers...not even something extra crunchy like Melba toast. I was just happily chomping away, trying to rid myself of the mid-morning munchies, and CRUNCH--a rather large chunk of my tooth was gone. Luckily, I didn't realize what had happened till a few seconds later so I didn't notice it when I swallowed the newly chipped part of my tooth along with cracker bits. Also, luckily enough, the affected tooth is not one of my front teeth. Actually, it's a lower tooth towards the back of my mouth, so the only person it's noticeable to is me, and the only time I really notice it is when my tongue rubs up against the sharp point left at the top of my tooth where the chippage occurred.

I showed my tooth to Aaron tonight and his exact words were, "Oh my GOD! When are you going to the dentist?!?" Sadly, the receptionist at our family dentist's office couldn't be bothered to find me an appointment any sooner than next Monday. I guess missing a chunk-o-tooth doesn't rank you high enough on their triage list to warrant a same-day appointment.

************************************************
I guess today is the day for apathetic health care providers. I have been having some moderate cramping over the past 24 hours or so, and although I know some cramping is normal in early pregnancy, I decided to call my doctor just to see if this is something to be concerned about. I mean, these aren't debilitating cramps and I haven't experienced any spotting or anything. It just seriously still feels like I'm going to be getting my period any second, even though I am 14 days late and have had two positive pregnancy tests. I'm a little concerned.

I called my new doctor's office and asked to speak with her nurse. I have never been in to see this doctor since this is my first need for an OB in Milwaukee and I haven't hadn't had my first prenatal visit yet, so this was also my first experience with this office's triage nurses. I explained my concerns the nurse and she pulled up my file. Here's a relatively accurate replay of our conversation:

Nurse: So this is your second pregnancy?

Me: Yep, sure is.

Nurse: Did you have cramping with your first pregnancy?

Me: Not that I recall, but it was four years ago and I'm a little hazy on the details.

Nurse: Are you spotting?

Me: Nope.

Nurse: How severe is the pain on a scale of one to ten?

Me: Probably a three or a four.

Nurse: Well, cramping is relatively common in early pregnancy. Call us back if you have any spotting. Is that all?

Me: Um, yes?

Nurse: Have a good day. (click)

Ok, yes, I know from my zillion Google searches of "cramping" and "early pregnancy" that some cramping is normal during pregnancy. I know that these nurses probably get this same call several times a day. But, a little more reassurance or possibly the offer of a blood test or something might have gone a long way to calm my fears. Seriously, whose idea was it to wait until a woman is in her eighth or ninth week of pregnancy for an initial prenatal visit? I know I could have been a little more assertive and asked for an appointment and just a quick check, but I was so stunned by this woman's lack of concern that I was rendered speechless. I'm sure that I am just being overly sensitive and that things are fine, but if things aren't, am I supposed to just sit here and wait until something happens? Ugh, ugh, UGH!

I don't know. I'm a little concerned about what will happen for the rest of my pregnancy if this is how the phone nurses react to my concerns. I am the type that will call in when something is bothering me and if I am met with this type of treatment each time, the time it will take from me to go from quiet, happy patient to screaming, nightmare patient will be able to be measured with an egg timer. I'm gonna give them one more shot. If the cramping continues or get worse, I'm calling back and asking for an appointment. If I get the same treatment, I'm out.

Holy. Crap.

It's been an interesting couple of weeks. Here's why:

Yep, that's two blue lines...the control line on the right, and the test line on the left. Yeah, the test line is fainter than the control line, but it's definitely there. Believe me...I have stared at this stick from every possible angle. This is actually the third test I took. Here's the first:

Obviously this picture was taken before Aaron gave me a tutorial on how to use the close up function on my camera. Anyway, the two options on this test are either "Not Pregnant" and "Pregnant" and since the display only contains one word, you can guess at the result even though the picture is fuzzy.

The second test I took was negative. Yeah, I don't know either.

So, if the first and third tests are to be believed, I am pregnant. The news was actually quite shocking to me, since we *technically* weren't even trying to conceive this month. And, I am still feeling quite crampy and I feel more premenstrual than I do pregnant. (Although the cramps are slightly different in nature than period cramps...right now I have more of a dull burning pain than crampy pain. It's weird.) And, the fact that I had that negative test puts some fear and doubt into my head. But, after doing tons of research on false negatives and false positives and after contacting the customer service hot line (twice) for the manufacturer of the digital test I took, I'm starting to let myself believe that it's true--that I am pregnant.

Holy crap.

**Update: I actually wrote this post more than a week ago, but Aaron and I decided to wait to post it till I was actually, sufficiently, late. I am now 12 days late, so I consider that sufficient. So, according to the zillion due date calculators that I have used online, my due date falls anywhere between January 6th and 9th. Although if my first pregnancy is any indication, I'll be a couple of weeks early, so we might have a Christmas baby on our hands. Keep your fingers crossed for me...it's still quite early in the game and I have another 3 weeks before my doctor's appointment, so hopefully all is well.

Yay Spring!!

Grace is a big fan of the warmer weather, and I am finding that each Spring is getting more and more fun with her. For Christmas this year, Santa brought Gracie a new "big girl" bike--her first real bike with training wheels. This evening before supper, we tried it out:

She's getting the hang of it, but she's still working on the whole braking concept.

One of Grace's other favorite thing to do outside is to get her sidewalk chalk and draw all over the driveway. Tonight, she told me that she wanted to draw The Red Store (our family's name for Target). Behold the power of branding:

Yep, that's Grace's rendering of the Target logo. The marketing is not lost on an almost-four-year-old.

The other thing Grace loves about Spring is...ice cream!!!

Yay Spring!!

Meeting Colin on His Vast Veranda

So, I know my last post was rather heavy, and my mood has improved since then, mostly because my husband took me to see Colin Meloy, the lead singer of the Decemberists (he's on a solo tour), last night in Milwaukee. I love Colin, and thank goodness Aaron is man enough to watch his wife drool her way through a 90-minute concert. Some images:

Mmmm..
Sing it baby...

He *says* he's singing about his girlfriend, but I KNOW he is singing about the girl sitting in row L, seat 8 (that would be me)...
Ok, I'm done.

Sacrifice

Not the Aztec kind, in which a warrior's still-beating heart is ripped out of his chest to pacify the gods of rain...

I'm talking about the kind in which a working mom's heart is, metaphorically speaking, ripped out of her chest to pacify the corporate gods...

Does every mom who works outside of the house go through this? Recently, I was offered a new promotion at work, and along with the (little bit of) extra money and snazzy new title comes a whole shit-ton of extra work. Hour-long lunches are a distant memory. Two Saturday mornings a month are spent at work rather than at home snuggling with my kiddo. Sneaking out of work a couple minutes early to savor a few extra moments in the evening with the family is out of the question. Nights spent watching toons with Gracie are less frequent than nights I spend in front of the computer running reports.

What does a mom do when she HAS to work outside of the home? She works, and she does the best she can, and because of that, she is recognized and rewarded with a promotion. And then she suffers, because her real, most important job suffers.

Sacrifice means different things for different people. In the corporate world, you sacrifice precious family time to go above and beyond at work. It's just expected of you. You miss out on Saturday morning cartoons and donuts so you can make money for The Company. You drag yourself around, exhausted and dazed and frustrated, just to do it all again tomorrow. And, your heart breaks when your baby wakes up in the morning, hoping she will maybe get to spend the day with you, and you have to tell her, "Mommy has to work again today."

Or, you don't work or don't take the promotion and you sacrifice all of the extra stuff that you're used to. The new clothes. The vacations. The new lap top. The concerts. All of the fun stuff that you couldn't afford if you didn't work. Is that stuff all that important? I don't think it is...

I talk to working moms all the time that tell me they LOVE to work and travel and hang with the boys and I wonder if I have an unhealthy attachment to my child. Is it abnormal for me to want to spend at least half of my time with her? I'm starting to wonder if it is.

I think I know what I need to do, but I am afraid. Afraid if I turn down the promotion, I will lose respect among my coworkers, and worse, my job. Wondering if I should suck it up and soldier on. Deciding which sacrifice will be less painful and hoping I have the balls to make the right decision.

Reception=Awesome

Our reception weekend can probably be summed up in one word, especially since we included a brewery tour in our festivities, and the reception was at a brewery in Brew City:

Beer.


More pictures to come very soon!

A Rare Moment of Calm

This morning, the day before The Reception, on the way home from my last spray tanning session before the big party (no UV for this girl, no way)...

Driving past the school that Gracie will be attending in the fall, watching parents walking their children into school, seeing smiling faces and excitement, and imagining how it will be dropping my baby off on her first day of school, all smiles and excitement...

Watching a plane take off over our house and thinking to myself, "It will all be ok when I fly in a couple of weeks. I know it will. So just chill out." And really knowing, for a few moments anyway, that things WILL be ok.

Walking into my quiet house this morning, seeing all of our wedding favors ready to go, remembering how Aaron had a plan for how to get everything ready for the reception, stress-free, knowing that--even though he didn't say it out loud--he made that plan for me because he loves me and doesn't want me to feel overwhelmed, and feeling SO excited that tomorrow night I get another chance to celebrate our wedding and the deep, all-encompassing love that I feel for my husband.

Sitting here, anticipating seeing my beloved family and friends tomorrow, tearing up at the thought of seeing my grandparents again after many months, and feeling so blessed that it's almost beyond words.