For Ten Days Prior

I woke up yesterday and felt my boobs. It's what I had done every morning for the ten days prior; I was essentially just making sure they were still sore. If they were still sore, it meant that my progesterone was still high. If my progesterone was still high, it meant that my period wasn't going to start yet. If my period wasn't going to start yet, then I just might be pregnant. This is the game I play with myself every month.

For ten days prior, I had decided to be positive. Well, that's not exactly it. I reached out to a 7-year-old, beloved-by-Oprah, pop-self-help phenomenon, The Secret. [insert eye roll] Okay, so I didn't really hop on that dated bandwagon, but for some reason I had been reminded of what a woman more New Age and spiritual than myself had told me a while back. She urged me to talk to my baby, that my baby was out there and that I needed to tell her that we were ready for her. Jamie has always told me that I'm too negative, (something that I've always argued as being realistic) so I figured it couldn't hurt to try something different.

For ten days prior, I talked to my baby. I told her about us and how long we've been waiting for her. I told her about how eager her grandparents are to meet her, about her three aunts and three uncles and her honorary aunts and uncles, about her two older cousins as well as the three cousins who would all be born just months before her. I pitched a happy and loving family. I cried to her in desperation then smiled when I felt that she was with me.

For ten days prior, I had convinced myself that I was pregnant.

♦♦♦

I foggily walked to the bathroom, pressing the heels of my palms into the sides of my breasts on the way, trying not to trip over the dog dancing around my feet. The soreness I carried for ten days had mostly depleted. While aware of what this meant, the lingering warm-and-fuzzies from bonding and making new friends at Saturday's blog conference managed to buffer my disappointment.

After taking the dog out, I crawled back into bed with my iPad to skim through Facebook and Instagram. Immediately reminded that it was Mother's Day, I made a mental note to call my mom then mentioned to Jamie about my impending period. In typical Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus fashion, he didn't connect the dots like I had hoped, and I didn't connect them for him. Instead I held in my frustration that he couldn't figure out that this infertile woman was finding out she was, yet again, not pregnant on Mother's Day, and that she needed some serious spousal support. Instead, we argued over who was going to go get breakfast since we lacked anything substantial in the house. Not resolving anything, Jamie went downstairs and I continued flipping through Facebook.

I was doing fine with all the Mother's Day posts, even the ones about new or expecting mothers. There are quite a few of these on my feed, three of the expectant mothers being all three of my sister-in-laws, yet I'm finding it quite easy to be happy for them. Sara, the last of said sisters to fall pregnant, announced her pregnancy publicly on Facebook on Saturday, so I was reading through all of her congratulations when I fell upon a sweet comment from my dear mother-in-law asking "So how is our little Gummy Bear today?". For some reason, this triggered everything for me.

After crying for a moment, I closed my iPad, blew my nose, then curled up in bed. I rested for a few minutes, then decided to call my mom to wish her a happy day. When I finished up with my phone call, I went downstairs to see if we could decide on breakfast. Nope. Jamie was still grumpy that I wouldn't just go get some food, and I was still upset that he was still so unaware of my anguish. I sat in the dining room and cried a few minutes more before heading back upstairs and crawling back into bed to make myself fall asleep.

Having quietly showered and dressed, Jamie woke me up.

It was late morning, "Babe, let's go out to eat."

Startled, I looked sharply at him, covered my face, then fell back asleep. A little later, while on the phone with his mother, he woke me up with a gentle tap and silently urged me to get dressed so we could go to lunch. It was hot, so I threw on a comfortable summer dress. I messily applied some mascara and in an effort to make myself feel better, I stepped into some orange wedge sandals. I walked downstairs and sank into the couch. As we got up to leave, I took the shoes off and ran upstairs to put on flip-flops.

I felt okay as we drove to our lunching destination. While still heavy inside, I decided to make an effort to feel better, and it was kind of working. We grabbed two spots at the bar at Yardhouse; Jamie ordered a pretty tasty cocktail, I ordered a disappointing beer. We ordered lunch and I ignored the large groups of families out celebrating Mother's Day. I felt mostly fine until after we finished eating.

When we finished eating, I no longer had a distraction. My eyes wandered between a number of TVs surrounding me, settling on the golf tournament on a television behind the bar and to my left. I gazed past my husband as the broadcast showed a montage of unknowingly-filmed mothers with their children who were in attendance that day. A woman sitting next to a pond as her little boy throws grass into the water and her daughter picks clover from the edge of the water. A mother, hand-in-hand with her three children, strolling a path between holes, the eldest daughter wearing a pink visor and a polo shirt tucked into her khaki capri pants. Who brings their kids to a golf tournament!? Where are the dads!? I thought. A well-endowed blond bounces a grinning baby on her hip, the rock on her left hand catching the sun and creating a flare in the television camera. Oh, golf wives. 

My eyes welled up and my face tensed, working hard to contain the tears within my eyelids. My uterus, that bitch, ached and cramped as if to rub it in. My nose tingled. My face felt hot. Unable to command my nostrils not to drip, I excused myself to the restroom. As I locked the stall door, my eyes relaxed and the tears ran loose. I didn't cry just then, I only allowed myself to clear what had built up. I wiped those tears and blew my nose. I used the toilet and made note that while slightly spotting, my period had yet to start.

I returned to my seat feeling a bit renewed and more calm. We tried to decide what to do with the rest of our day.

"Do you want to have another drink?"

I didn't know. We considered going home and to the pool since it was hot. I really had no preference, so I told Jamie that we could do whatever he wanted. If he was going to have another drink, I'd have another, but I didn't know what I should do. I told him, vaguely, that I was struggling which I felt that by then he had finally picked up on.

"Well, maybe you should have another drink!"

I considered that more alcohol would make it worse, and we both decided to just head home.

My face tensed and tingled once again and remained that way until we had finished our drinks, paid our bill, and walked to the car. About half way home, I couldn't contain it, and I sobbed silently. I let the tears run down my neck and chest; I've always found this to be therapeutic as if my tears were washing the hurt away. Jamie held my hand and didn't say anything. It was the gesture I had been fishing for all day and it caused a second wave of strong emotion to wash over me, overwhelming relief and gratefulness that he does, indeed, "get it."

♦♦♦

We stopped at the grocery store and I waited in the car while Jamie shopped for dinner-making supplies. By the time he was finished, I was calm and collected (and annoyed that I didn't have one tissue in my purse or in the car.) Having let it all out during our ride home, I was able to get on with my day. When I walked into the house, I felt better. Not only better, but in a good mood. Having washed it away, my heaviness was gone.

My period came about an hour later and my reaction was nothing more than a casual "Aw, shit." I returned to the couch to continue on with our lazy Sunday, flipping through Mother's Day posts on Facebook and Instagram, half listening to the golf tournament on TV, giggling and that's-what-she-said-ing to the commenter's remarks.

("Did you see how it wiggled like a limp noodle when he swung it!? What power!" That's what she said.)

I felt normal again. 

For ten days prior, I was confident that I will be a mother and today I can say the same.

Just Friday

I feel like I have a lot to do today, but I can't seem to focus on any of it. I've actually been feeling this way for most of the week, which is why I couldn't even manage to put up a post or two. I thought today would be better given that the men who have been working on our house for the past month have finally finished. It was better for a little while this morning long enough for me to wake up and get up at 6:30 to have a calm breakfast before working out at 8. After class, I ran errands! I was feeling really productive. That is, until I sat down at my desk.

So here I sit, wondering if I actually started the dryer when I transferred the jeans about 45 minutes ago, slightly annoyed at my lack of focus and annoyed that the washer and dryer are two stories below me. My tired legs from today's workout urge me not to make the short, yet long trip downstairs but the laundry strewn about the room argue that I need to start a new load anyway.

With life at full steam this past month, it's kept me distracted. Did you know that I'm putting on my big-girl blogger-pants and going to a conference tomorrow? Well, I knew that, but you wouldn't think I knew it. Of course I had totally forgotten about the things I had to bring and had to buy them last minute. One of these being business cards. DUH. How could I have not known that I'd need business cards. I could have easily put something together and gotten a crap-ton of cards for next to nothing with one of the many promos here on the internetz, but no. I had to scurry around photoshop and Staples.com and pay thirty-freaking-dollars for 100 full-color, yet matte, one-sided cards that I could pick up from the store. They turned out okay.

Anyway.

Jamie and I have a lot of time-management challenges ahead of us between our own work, a new project we're working on together, getting the house back in order now that the reconstruction is done (I predict a lot of "spring cleaning"), and figuring out when we're going to get back into fertility treatments (that we were supposed to have been already back into by now.) My biggest challenge will be not letting all of this overwhelm me.

I'm feeling confident that Monday will be the start of a new normal after a short readjustment today and this weekend. I need my normal back.

What You Should Know About Our Infertility

Apparently it's National Infertility Awareness Week. I've been mostly disconnected from the blog-world over the past few weeks, so it was news to me when I came upon a number of links and blog posts about the topic on Twitter. Honestly, at first, I rolled my eyes. Every week's an awareness week of some sort, it seems. I'm sure next week will be National Don't-Actually-Put-the-Cotton-Swab-IN-Your-Ear Awareness Week. 

My initial, split-second reaction was to feel defensive, and I really couldn't tell you why. Infertility is something that people should be aware of. I've been very open with my struggles, and by doing so have learned that there are a lot more people who are or have dealt with infertility, both people that I know personally and people that have reached out to me through my blog, than I would have ever guessed.

A lot of you reading this now already know my story, but chances are good that others you know are going through the same thing but choose to be quiet about it. Choosing to share, and how much to share about a couple's infertility is a very personal decision and we've obviously decided to tell the world about it. But no matter how much we decide to share, there are some things that us, the infertile, wish the rest of the world knew about our situation. Here's my personal list:



1. Yes, we've likely tried what you're about to suggest.
Charting, temping, cervix-checking, cervical mucous-inspecting, ovulation predictor kit-using, "not trying", having sex every day, having sex every other day, having sex twice a day... we've done it. And now that we're on that topic...

2. Yes, we're having sex.
It amazes me how many times I've been told to just have a lot of sex. It's probably my number one annoyance since becoming open about our infertility and almost always comes from those who have easily conceived. This is also the number one thing that makes me defensive as it has a "you're doing it wrong" connotation and those offering this "advice" don't seem to realize how insensitive it actually is.

3. No, actually, it might not happen.
The most common phrase that I hear is "It'll happen." While I appreciate that it comes from a good place and is a way of showing support, it just isn't helpful. "I'm rooting for you guys!" and similar phrases are much more welcomed and supportive.

4. Yes, we're sure and yes, we're ready.
It's common in those with children to reference a melt-down, a diaper blowout, or other not-so-blissful facet of motherhood and ask, jovially, "Are you sure you're ready for this?" While good-natured and meant jokingly, after our first year of trying it became difficult to force a chuckle at this common quip.

5. No, I'm not upset because you're pregnant.
I'm upset because I'm not pregnant. There are a lot of babies and pregnant women in my life right now. Yes, it's painful, but I'm happy for all of them; ecstatic, even. For those that I care about, I am relieved that none of them had to go through what Jamie and I are going through. I've had people express guilt that it was so easy for them, or tell me that they felt bad because they were really wanting it to happen for me first, or even that they hoped it wouldn't affect our friendship. There's no need to feel guilty; your fertility is of no relation to my infertility. There's no need to feel bad that you got pregnant more quickly than it's taking me, but I do appreciate the consideration for my feelings. And of course it's not going to affect our friendship; If your being pregnant would cause me to no longer be friends with you, then you probably shouldn't be friends with me anyway! I am happy, happy, happy for you all and while I'm sad that I can't join you, I'm looking forward to this new chapter in life where my friends and family are having babies.



If you feel that you're guilty of any of the above, don't sweat it. I'm not holding any grudges. Infertility is tricky for all involved, be it the couple or their support system. I know that it's tough to gauge what is helpful, supportive, and appropriate when discussing it; this especially proves difficult in a casual, more light-hearted conversation. Being surrounded with pregnancy is also tricky for us when it comes to referencing our own infertility; I know that we have to consider how that might make you fortunate fertiles feel as we're not purposely trying to instigate guilt or any of the like.

So, as National Infertility Awareness Week comes to a close I can feel confident that I've contributed to the cause. Next week, I'll be sure to pitch the WaxVac and the importance of not jamming things into your ear hole.

10 Questions

This is a bit impromptu, but I came across a post by Erin at Living in Yellow in which she asks herself some hard-hitters and thought I'd do the same.

1. If you could do one thing differently in your life, what would it be?
I've seen this question a lot and it's always been difficult for me to answer. I struggle with this question because I look too deeply and have trouble not considering the long term effects of changing anything in my past. Say, if I hadn't [fill in the blank], then I likely wouldn't be where I am today. If I consider wishing that I had gone off to college after high school, then ultimately I must consider that had I, I wouldn't have met and married Jamie. Anything that I've done or not done has brought me to where I am right now, and I wouldn't want to change that.

2. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
I can't say for sure, but I know that I desperately hope that wherever I am, I have my husband and, at long last, a child.

3. Do you honestly want kids?
This question is only here because it's relevant to Erin's life at the moment. I couldn't think of a better question for my circumstances, so I'll just answer it: YES. (Duh. You already knew that.) I want a family so bad it hurts; my chest tightens at the thought. I'm seemingly surrounded by family and friends getting pregnant with ease and popping babies out left and right. It's been very difficult the past six months or so to manage the effect my infertility has had on me, but I'm working through it.

4. What has been the best moment of your life so far?
Honestly, it was probably my birthday in 2011. Hannah was in town visiting from Ohio and she and Jamie planned a surprise birthday party for me. I had never had one before and it was fantastic. Seeing all of the people that showed up to string streamers and blow up balloons and wait in the dark for us to come home from dinner just absolutely made my day. It was the first time since moving to California in 2011 that I felt like I had a real, solid group of good friends and that made me superbly happy.

Apparently, this is the only photo I have from that visit.

5. What is your life theme song?
I take my relationships very seriously. Anyone that I keep myself involved with is someone special to me and I am happy to drop one-sided friendships (as disappointing as that can be.) The song that I chose for this question is one that I've always attached to my closest friends from high school, but these days I connect it with anyone important to me. We played it at our wedding and had a sappy moment with my friends, and after my dad died, it was a song that could instantly turn on the water works.



6. What is one thing you have yet to accomplish that you want to do before you die?
Please see #3.

7. If you could choose one thing to be known for, what would it be?
Yikes. I really don't have an answer for that. I don't even know what I'm known for now that I didn't choose.

8. If you could do anything you wanted right in this very moment (no consequences, no fear, etc), what would it be?
If we're saying that in this moment, all of the conditions could be perfect and money wasn't a factor, then I'd start IVF. Right now. I know that these types of questions are usually answered with some crazy, mind-blowing, exotic answer, but none of that interests me more right now than becoming a mother.

9. What has been the most challenging moment in your life?
If I can stretch "moment" into a series of days, then most definitely the days my dad was in Hospice. One might have answered the actual death, but to put it frankly, there's not much that could be worse than spending time waiting for a loved one to die. No, the death was a relief compared to watching my father decline in the days leading up. I'm fortunate to have had a such solid support system during that time to help me through.

10. Summarize yourself in one word.
Tangled.



Well, that was kind of heavy.

Moving Forward and Starting Over

Hey, remember when this was a blog about trying to conceive and infertility?

This photo is irrelevant.

Since last fall, I've come to know nine women who are pregnant. This doesn't include the dozen or so women that I follow here in the wide world of the interweb, either. The realization of how many women I know and "know" that are getting pregnant led to a meltdown... a major meltdown.

For a woman, unexplained infertility is absolutely, soul-crushingly heartbreaking. For a man? I really couldn't tell you how it feels. Jamie is still so frustratingly optimistic. During my sob-fest, he urged me to calm down. This made it worse. I asked him why he doesn't feel like I do and he only offered me "I do. Yes, it sucks. I'm upset about it too."

I didn't think that was enough. After nearly four years, (five, if you count a year of not-so-carefully being off birth control) I'm not upset; I'm heartbroken and I want him to be heartbroken too. I told him that I didn't understand how he couldn't be or why he isn't; why after so long, he's still satisfied with "it'll happen." I want him to hurt as much as I do.

I don't remember if I mentioned this (and if I had, I can't find it), but after our last cycle of Clomid and IUI in November, we decided to take a break. Christmas was ahead of us and we wanted to take it easy for that month and take some time to start paying off our fertility treatments. Then we found out that my mom had breast cancer, which led to my heading to Ohio for two weeks for her surgery and to be her caretaker during her recovery. So needless to say, our fertility treatments were put on the back burner for the past two and a half months.

I must have gotten my point across during my meltdown, as the next morning Jamie asked for the name of the new Reproductive Endocrinologist I had wanted to see. After looking him up on his iPhone, Jamie suggested I make an appointment.

The RE I had seen last year was fairly underwhelming. I never heard suggestions from him as to what more we could be doing. It was my suggestion to him that we try IUI. He never gave me the feeling that he wanted to do everything possible to help me conceive. So I took the advice of my buddy Carrie, who has nothing but rave reviews of the RE that helped her conceive her son, and I put in an appointment request for a consultation with him.

Here's to hoping that this new doctor can help us. I really, really need this to be our year.

No Appropriate or Creative Title

Since the turn of the new year, I've found myself struggling to remain hopeful. As we approach four years of trying to conceive a child, I'm becoming frustrated and angry. Today is one of those days where the hurt has piled up within me, urging me to just go back to bed and sleep it off. Nearly four years of my body essentially failing me has taken it's toll. There's nothing I've wanted more in my life than to get pregnant and start our family; having been refused this by my own body is devastating.

Jamie says I'm pessimistic. I say hope and disappointment are directly related; the more hopeful I am, the more disappointed I am when I find I'm not pregnant. What he sees as pessimism is my attempt at guarding myself from my own internal crash at the sight of that first smear of blood.

Infertility feels like an attack on my womanhood; like I am a failure at my most primitive responsibility. While I know I am not alone, and know friends and family who have or are currently struggling with infertility, it's isolating. Being seemingly surrounded by pregnant women is difficult, to say the least. I'm extremely happy for the pregnant women in my life, but I am extremely sad for me. What was once mild envy and a starry-eyed daydream of my own future has turned to a feeling of resentment toward myself. Why can't I do that? Why won't my body do that for me? 

What's worse is knowing that had I not suffered through infertility all of this time, I'd have a toddler by now. Why stop there? I could have even had a second child by now! But I don't have either, all because my body won't work for me.

"It'll happen!" I'm told. While I appreciate the support, it makes me want to scream, "WHEN!?" though I know no one has that answer.

"Enjoy your time being kid-less!" is also a common suggestion and we do. We take full advantage of not having any children, and it's fantastic. Jamie and I have a lot of fun with each other, our family, and our friends, but I'm ready to put that on the back burner. I'm ready to not sleep. I'm ready for the gross stuff and I'm ready for the sweet stuff. I'm ready to be in charge of creating and molding a little life. I'm ready to teach and learn from it.

I'm ready to be a mother and to see Jamie as a dad and there's nothing worse right now than being inexplicably denied of these things.

(and) I Feel Fine

The next item on my To Do list today simply says "blog". I had no idea what I wanted to write about and had nothing prepared, so I decided to sift through Facebook. I came across a couple status updates reminding me of tomorrow's impending doom, but nothing rang a bell for me until I saw this:

"If the end of the world really were tomorrow, and we knew it, how would you spend these last few hours?"

Thank you, Writing Gods and MDB for being Their prophet today! 

Of the 23 responses when I happened upon it, they were split fairly evenly between realistic and fantastical. The realistic responses were mostly of the "spend it with my family and be grateful." The fantastic involved indulgence and a lot of sex.

Realistically, if we really were aware of the End Times so far in advance, travel to be with far-away family would likely be close to impossible due to the fact that most people would probably stop going to work at some point, meaning no flights, trains or buses. The best we'd have is to travel by car, but gas would be hoarded and hard to come by. I imagine gas station takeovers and bartering supplies and food for fuel. Civilization would become post-apocalyptic before the Apocalypse even had a chance to get started, in which case I'd immediately regret not ever watching Doomsday Preppers and hopping on that bandwagon that would now seem much less silly.

My ideal final days without any consideration for probability and possibility would involve everyone I care about in one place, preferably at my mom's house in Ohio. I'd have all of my family and each of my friends at an arm's reach (figuratively; I'm pretty claustrophobic). We'd build a bonfire to circle around, bundled up with hats and scarves, blankets and pillows, sharing stories and reminiscing. There would be a potluck feast of our favorite foods and we'd drink to our liver's discontent. If there's no tomorrow, then there's no hangover.* (Not to mention our imminent death would be much less painful.)

The end of the Mayan calendar has been this decade's Y2K. The thought that the world is going to end tomorrow is silly, really, but what it has offered me was a chance to really decide what I find to be most important in my life: the love of my family and closest friends, and the time I get to spend with each and every one of them.


How would you spend your final hours?


*This was inspired by my brother-in-law, Mike's quote from a couple years ago: "I'm not thinking about tomorrow when I'm drinking today."

Story of My Life

Self explanatory.

I spent all of Saturday just waiting for my period to show. My boobs stopped hurting, which meant that my progesterone dropped, which meant that my uterus was going to start ripping itself apart at any minute. I got my period on Sunday morning while my mom was still here. Part of telling the world that you're trying to get pregnant is having to deal with their sad faces and "it'll happen" sentiments, so I didn't really feel like saying anything to her about it. She wouldn't have been so cheesy about it, but I really just wasn't ready to talk to anyone about it.

Jamie and I considered taking this cycle off for a break, but in the end, agreed to try once more. If it doesn't happen this cycle, we'll probably take a break next cycle. This whole thing is really mentally exhausting. It's really hard to find a healthy balance of being hopeful but realistic, and I don't really think there's a ladder tall enough to climb up and sit on that fence. When I try to stay positive, I get my hopes up which are later crushed by menstruation; when I try to be realistic, I depress myself, which is only amplified by a new cycle.

Unexplained infertility is really taxing. Why can't I get pregnant? Why won't my body work? What is wrong with me? What is it going to take? Jamie keeps reassuring me that we have time and others have said the same. "You're young!" Yes. Yes I am. And if it's this difficult for me to get pregnant in my twenties, it sure as hell is not going to be easier in my thirties. I'm pretty sure it's all downhill from here if we wait. Jamie calls this pessimistic; I call it realistic.

It's really difficult to keep myself from slipping into feeling like it's never going to happen; that I will never carry a baby inside of me. It's a depressing thought that feels like truth at times, so it's important to keep trying to find that balance. It's also really important to me to keep doing all we can to get pregnant, but I can't help but feel like it's really overwhelming Jamie, so we really have to make it more of a point to sit down and get on the same page, and if that means taking a break, then we'll take a break.

For right now, all I can do is try to wipe a clean mental slate and start again.

Round Two

It had been a really, really rough day when I got my last period. I had started spotting, which to any woman in the two week wait is full of mixed emotions. We just hope and hope that it's implantation bleeding, which would happen either around when your period is due, or earlier. It was Monday when I started spotting, and my two week wait wasn't going to be over until that Thursday, so I was really on board with this implantation bleeding thing.

Of course, I spent the next hour or so Googling it and reading forum posts and two week wait stories like I have in cycles past. I don't know why I keep doing this as it pretty much just makes it worse when I do actually get my period, but I just can't loosen my grip on hope, even if it does mean a more severe disappointment.

The worst was yet to come. Not long after I started spotting, I scrolled through Facebook as I normally would. I came upon an ultrasound picture that someone posted to announce their pregnancy. Instantly, I smile and think 'Aww! That's so exciting! They're going to make one gorgeous child, for sure.' but then my hormones and three-and-a-half years of not-being-able-to-get-pregnant-ness took over and I ugly-face cried. You know, the kind where not only does your face contort to Jim Carrey proportions, but tears squirt out of your face as if your eyeballs were attached to one of those pump-action Super Soaker backpacks that I coveted as a kid.

Soon enough, I composed* myself and went on with my day. That is, until the soul-crushing moment about an hour later when I went to the bathroom and realized I had started my period. Jim Carrey face, check; Super Soaker tears, check; but this time, lets throw in some sobs that, had our windows been open, may have led our neighbors to believe that we were harboring a seal pup.

I let it happen. I let myself feel sad because there's no use in trying to tell myself that I can't be sad that other women are getting pregnant and I cannot. It hurts and I have to feel it.

Keeping it together for the duration of the day was not easy, and I wasn't always successful. The next day, it was back to the drawing board. I knew immediately that I wanted an IUI this cycle. Jamie and I discussed it, then spoke with our doctor about it who is a big advocate of it, so we went forward.

Once again, I took Clomid to stimulate my follicles to create more than one egg. Last cycle, I had three follicles, but one kind of took over so I only had one egg. This cycle, I had four follicles. The one on the right was huge and ready to burst on Monday, my birthday. I had had my HCG trigger shot the day before to make me ovulate, so when I had my first IUI on Monday morning, the timing looked perfect. I went in again on Tuesday for a second IUI, and I still had my three follicles on the left side that were going to ovulate that day. So it looks like I had four eggs this cycle! And, because Jamie has super sperm, he managed to produce 5 million sperm two days in a row, which impressed the doctor since sperm count is usually lower on the second day.

Lying in wait, literally, after the IUI on my birthday. Let's hope it's good luck.

I'm also really hopeful this cycle because IUI removes the whole process of trying to get those swimmers through my cervix without dying. If my - GROSS ALERT - cervical mucus isn't up to Goldilocks'** standards, then it can seriously decrease the chances of spermies ever making it through the cervix.

So once again, we wait. I've got about ten days left, which will be a long ten days.



* I am glad I caught my typo before publishing this as I had originally typed "composted" instead of "composed." 
** Just right, duh.

"Get Dad Out of the Closet"

When my dad died last year in March, my mom, brother and I made a point to keep our wits about us. The base of my sense of humor is sarcasm so strong that it's a wonder I even have any friends. My dad's sense of humor was was more widely accepted and always felt genuine. He loved to tell stories and make people laugh, yet wasn't averse to poking some ribs with a good round of shit-talking.

A perfect example. My dad with Jamie's dad before our wedding in 2007.
image credit: Noble Images

During his final days, while still responsive (though with a lot of effort), he challenged me to arm-wrestle. After grabbing his hand, he jerked mine around for a second then seemingly fell back asleep. A few seconds passed then he squeezed my hand and whispered, "I win." There were times like this during his last week with us that, I think, helped me stay grounded. He held on to his humor until the day he could no longer speak to us and so we felt comfortable seeing the humor in things.

We met with the funeral home to proof his obituary and sign the cremation papers. Sitting in a showroom of urns and coffins is really awkward. They gave us tissues, but I don't think we needed them. We weren't crying, or maybe we were, but it was because we were laughing so hard at the usage of the words "pulverize" and "tumble" when it came to signing off on Dad's cremation. It gave us the best/worst mental image that we couldn't help but laugh at, and we're certain that my dad would have been laughing as well.

There wasn't a funeral; we're not that formal. Dad's memorial service was the always emotional playing of Taps with the 3-volley salute followed by a reception full of eating and drinking at the VFW. None of us wanted to speak or have anyone speak. We all knew who he was and what he gave to us and we really didn't want to exhaust ourselves any more than we already had, emotionally. After a couple hours at the VFW, we continued on into the evening back at my parents' house to fully celebrate my dad's life with more PBR and peach schnapps (two of his drinking staples) than you could shake a stick at. We partied in The Bar, a place rich in drunken family history. A place with a real bar bar, and also a workbench. A place for drinking and fixing things.

An example of my ass-hattery and the bar workbench in 2009.

The bar half of The Bar. Yes, it's like a full-on bar, man, in 2010.

Ohio in early March is gross. There may or may not still be snow, there will be rain, the ground is always soggy. We decided to stow the ashes and spread them later in the year during warmer months. I returned to Ohio the following August, "I'll get Dad out of the closet." Dad had spent the last five months on the top shelf of Mom's bedroom closet. Pulverized and tumbled, he was still heavy.

We spread Dad with an old measuring cup and a plastic spoon. (Like I said, we're not formal.) First was the large burn pile that was to be burned the following evening.

Next, we put him in the pond, where after more than half a century, he finally learned to swim.

Then, it was into The Bar where we put him in the brass foot bar as well as in his seat behind the bar.

(I like to tell people who sit there not to fart on my dad.)

We added a little to his green house (which now lives at my cousin's place) then finally put the rest of him beneath a new tree we planted.

Did I mention that we poured beer and peach schnapps everywhere (outside) that we put him?

Pouring "Papa's Peachka"

Okay, we didn't pour all of it!

My mom had spent the spring and summer cleaning out my dad's old junk. He had an I Might Need This mentality when it came to stuff, and it showed in his cabinets and boxes full of miscellaneous things. Being that she has her own separate workshop off the front of the garage, my mom was set on transforming our half bar/half workbench into one cohesive partying space. She was secretive about it, but then again, my being across the country made it difficult for me to spy on her progress.

The night after we spread Dad's ashes was The Grand Re-Opening of Darrell's Bar. The new name (Darrell's Bar replacing The Bar) came with the new look, yet wasn't a purposeful change. We all just started referring to it as such and was natural in transition. It was the beginning of a new era and there would have been no better way to kick it off than with a big party.

Where The Bar had tools on the walls and stuff on the workbench, Darrell's Bar had pennants, signs, and photos on the walls. The workbench was now a clean surface with photos on display under a clear coat of people from parties-past. Mom created added seating space with a counter top and vintage bar stools on the previously full-of-junk third wall as well as finding a cool booth for the center of the room.

This new-old space is a place to both carry on and move on without my dad. "To Darrell!" can likely be heard echoing through the neighborhood when we have a party, and if my dad were around to experience the nearly-constant toasting, he'd relish in it. He was just that kind of guy, so we humor him with toasts, stories and remember-whens.

Remember when Dad took a shot out of a beer mug that had a bicycle bell on it?

 Dad isn't physically with us, but when we're in Darrell's Bar, there's no escaping him.

Only in Dreams

I was a hopeless romantic when I was a teenager. Or maybe I wasn't. Maybe it was actually my wanting someone to be hopelessly romantic toward me. That might be a more accurate statement. Weezer's blue album was a staple in my CD rotation during those hours and hours spent in my room being angsty, emotional and dreaming about whatever guy I had a crush on at the time. If it had been possible, I would have burned a hole through the CD with how often I put this song on repeat.

Whoever this girl was that Rivers was dreaming about, I wanted to be her to someone. I suppose it's possible that I was, but in my mind, I wanted to be that girl to whatever boy was on my mind. Otherwise, what was the point? Duh, I wanted that magic movie moment where I'd be at a party and this song plays, drowning out all other sound, as my dream dude rushes up and spills his heart out to me.

We warmed down to this song at Spin the other night. I hadn't heard it in quite a while, but I did discover that it still makes my guts swirl. At this point, it doesn't remind me of anyone in particular, (likely due to the fact that I listened to it all through junior high and high school, which means there were probably a thousand boys that I had wished this song was being sung to me by) but I still very much feel this song when I hear it.

I never had my big movie moment, but I don't need it. It felt like it took so long for me to finally meet someone special, but in the big picture, I met Jamie when we were so young! We were nineteen! I'm very lucky to have met someone that I've been able to grow and mature with without any major disasters. We've had our blow outs, but we've never broken up or even mentioned it. So while big, sweeping romantic gestures are what girls dream about, it's the day to day stuff and the gradual growth and development that is most important to me now. No, I never swooned over the thought of one day having a stable, healthy, long-term, loving relationship, but that's what I have and it's better than any movie moment I've ever dreamed up.

We're Familial

I got home from our impromptu cast pool party at about 12:40 am lugging my over-stuffed purse to the dining room table. I unloaded it's contents: my makeup bag, wet bathing suit, roses, trinkets and cards. I look over it all one more time before finally heading to bed, smiling. Those of you who have been a part of any type of theatrical production will probably relate to the sense of love and family that I brought home with me after closing night.

As with most productions, the cast spends the majority of six or seven weeks seeing, interacting and working with each other on an increasingly regular basis. In this case, the cast was very small and the show was so good, that we couldn't help but to love and support one another. This feeling of family was amplified on opening night after curtain call with a standing ovation. Adrenaline pumping, we rush off stage with wide smiles and and an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. We exchange hugs and compliment each other mercilessly. Through the end of the run, our bonds grow stronger with both line flubs and brilliant scene successes.

It all sounds ridiculously corny... cheesy... mushy, I know, but it's honest. The rush of performing is only half of why I love to do theater. All of this, the new or improved friendships, the support and encouragement, the stories, the jokes, the accomplishments and the familial environment make up the other half of what draws me to it.

This show and cast are up in my top favorites ever and I'm lucky to be able to see a majority of these people very soon for our next production. I'm so grateful and appreciative of each and every one of them for what they've contributed to the show to make it one of the best experiences in my limited community theater career.

Thank you all!

I'm a Contributor! I Contribute.

This photo has nothing to do with this post.

A few weeks ago, as I was blog-hopping, I discovered Sarah and her blog, Well and Cheaply. I read through her recent posts and found myself reading a couple weeks worth of her blog. Sarah has a string of really honest posts under the label of Things I'm Afraid to Tell You; the first I came to was this post titled On Having Kids Part 2. She quoted a post of similar nature from her old blog, and it was probably this one line that helped me really get what she was saying:

"Not wanting to or not being sure if you want to have kids feels a lot similar to being an atheist.  What about it does everyone else see that I don't?"

She goes on to explain that a year later, she suddenly caught a tad bit of Baby Fever and how that conflicts with her views on how our growing population is affecting our planet.

I thought it was a perfectly honest post that I enjoyed reading, so I left a thoughtful comment. An hour or so later, I received an email from Sarah thanking me for my comment. She also mentioned that she was going on vacation at the end of this month and had the idea of running a series of guest posts about various topics relating to having children. She had checked out my blog and asked if I'd be interested in contributing on the more specific topic of trying to conceive and considering adoption.

I agreed, thought about it for a few days and on a Saturday morning while lazing on the couch, I put together my post and sent it over. The post I wrote for her is really an expansion of feelings that I've alluded to in previous posts, but I don't think that I've elaborated on them as much as I could have, so it felt good to focus a little more on those things.

My post is up today, so please, please visit Sarah's blog and read it if you're interested. If you have the time, read through the rest of the series as well, they're all so well done.

On Anxiety and Panic

"Pull!"

Having just shot, I took my turn launching the targets. The shooting stations were constructed of wood with lattice on the top and two sides that at some point had been painted green.

"Pull!"

I pressed the button. As I stood there, I looked more closely at the upright box I was standing in. In the top corners I noticed thick spider webs. I immediately look to the bottom corners to find the same.

"Pull!"

I looked quickly to find that the lattice surrounding me was obviously some type of arachnid preservation. My heart pounded and my lungs felt shallow.

"Pull!"

My shoulders tensed as I looked around and forced a deep breath. Upon guarded inspection in fear of what I was going to see if I looked too carefully, I found nothing in the webs.

"Pull!"

Mostly relaxed, I launched the final targets and stepped out of the station. What I felt in there could have escalated into a panic attack, but I managed to keep my wits about me and think realistically. My fear of spiders is irrational and because I know so, I was able to keep my panic in check. This isn't always the case, however. Sometimes panic comes without an obvious stressor, and when that happens, it's difficult to manage.


"Sorry for the heat," my director informed us, "The air conditioner wouldn't come on." 


The normally cool theater was hot and stuffy for rehearsal, but I thought nothing of it. If I can take an hour spin class without air conditioning, I can survive rehearsal in the heat. We began Act II and a few pages in, I was beginning my song. I had just run the song a few times at home earlier in the day and was feeling confident and ready to knock it out. 


It didn't start out well, but I was going to shake it off for the next verse. When I move into the second verse, I find that I'm having trouble pushing it out. 


"I'm sorry, I'm out of breath," I panted as the piano continued.
"That's okay, it's hot. Just keep going," my director, well, directed.

I make my cross to continue, but only manage to push out half of the words. I gasp and put my hands on my knees. "I can't breathe," I gasp a few times and sit on the edge of the low stage, my chest feeling like it was wrapped 100 times with Ace bandaging, "I'm panicking."

Before grabbing some water and taking it with me outside for some air, I was met with reassuring gestures of  "You're doing great, don't panic!" but it wasn't that. This panic attack was seemingly out of the blue and because I didn't know what was causing it, I couldn't slow it down. It's bad enough to buckle under pressure, but halting rehearsal because I had a panic attack in the middle of my song is just embarrassing.

It took a couple years before Jamie was really understanding of how my panic and anxiety works, so dealing with it in front of people who don't know about it makes me feel weak. It doesn't help the situation when following my musical director saying "Take as much time as you need," a cast mate said, under her breath to him, "Easy for you to say. You don't have kids to go home to."

After what was probably still less than five minutes, I pushed myself to go on. I wasn't ready, but I can't bring waste everyone's time because of something so seemingly silly. Continuing the scene while trying to regulate my breathing and get my heart to stop racing was difficult, but within a half hour I was feeling better.

Anxiety and panic attacks are tricky to manage. When my anxiety first began to have an effect on my life 5 or 6 years ago, I went on medication. It was a low dose of Celexa that proved effective in eliminating my work and driving anxieties, but I yawned constantly. When I say "constantly", I'm not exaggerating. So while I felt better, my doctor advised me that once I got to a place where I was feeling normal, I could ween myself off of the pills. I did just that after about 4 or 5 months, and since then have had less general anxiety. (However, this can also be attributed to changes in workplace since then.)

Where I used to have more general anxiety, lately I've had more pop-up panic attacks, both explained and unexplained. My surprise panic at rehearsal has me considering a return to medication, but hopefully just for short term management. As described above at the shooting range, there are a lot of situations where I can control my own anxiety and keep panic attacks at bay, but that might not be good enough right now. As much as I'd like to stay off medication, it might be necessary in order to keep my situation from affecting others as it did that night at rehearsal.

Anxiety and panic are such overwhelming sensations that when left unmanaged can, over time, build and grow to where it will weigh over everything in life. If I don't keep my anxiety under control, I'll lose control over everything else in my life and that is unacceptable. Though, even on medication, it's likely that I still won't enjoy standing in a box full of spider webs. I'll just be able to breathe comfortably while doing it.

Fifteen and a Half

Jamie always wakes up before me, even on the weekends. On Sunday, I woke just enough to hear him wrestling with some laundry then dozed back to sleep. I woke up for the day when I heard him come back in the house from walking Chuck. He was on the phone wishing his dad a happy Father's Day. I sunk into the mattress and shrouded myself with the heavy comforter.

False advertising. It wasn't comforting.

My dad died on March 2nd, 2011 after a six year, on again/off again battle with colon cancer. My dad had no reservations about telling me how he was relieved when my mom canceled what was supposed to be their first date because he had found out he had VD and "didn't want to risk it." In early 2005, however, he didn't want to be the one to tell me he had cancer.

I knew that the doctors suspected it and I knew when Dad was expecting his results, so I called him from the Metrolink station on the way to work. He wanted to pawn it off on Mom, but she wasn't home; I pushed. Dejected, he answered, "It's cancer."

He was on chemotherapy treatments after his initial surgery to remove a large portion of his colon. After some time, they told him he was clear! No cancer. They removed his chemo port from his chest. What a jinx that was. A few months later, we found out that his cancer had spread through the lymph system to his lungs. The cancer spread more over time and at the end of 2010, it reached his brain. 


Sometime toward the end of February 2011, I went home to Ohio. It took me two days as I had to spend the night in Denver. My last normal conversation with my dad was on the phone at the Denver airport. By the time I got there, he couldn't hold a normal conversation. He was still in the rehab center when I first saw him. He was sleeping. My mom woke him up, "Darrell, Darrell! Look who's here." 


He forced out, with raspy breath, "Buttons*." 


I managed to keep it together for a while and didn't lose it until I was alone with him. I sat on his bed, at his hip, facing away to the window. I held his hand while watching the snow fall. The snow on the ground was so new and so white and the flakes that were falling were huge. It was peaceful and I began to tear up. As I was no longer able to keep my composure, I laid my head down on his chest. He kissed me twice on the head and I cried. 


The following two days involved speaking with Hospice, setting up a hospital bed at home in the living room and of course, moving him back into the house. We spent a week or so after that at home with Dad. Family and friends visited and we felt so supported. It seems like Mom and I lived off of pizza and lattes from East West Brew House and sugar wafers, and I have no complaints about that. 


It was an odd relief when my dad died. He had been sleeping for nearly a day straight when it happened. My Aunt Mary had been at the house for a couple hours, and I was in the other room, chatting with Jamie online. In the middle of our conversation, I said "I'm going to go in the other room. Aunt Mary's been here for a while, I'm just going to go in there."

I walked into the living room and stood at the foot of the bed. Dad was sleeping; breathing as he had been. Hong-hoo, hong-hoo, hong-hoo. Mom sat in the chair to my dad's right. Aunt Mary, standing to his left said, in her usual "well gosh!" tone, "Geez, I wish I knew a better prayer in Polish! I only know the Lenten prayer." I urged her to say it, anyway, and she bent down to recite it in his ear. She stood back up. Hong-hoo, hong-hoo, hong-- We waited. He had been having some apnea, so we just stood there a little wide-eyed in anticipation. I held my breath. HOO hong-hoo, hong-hoo. 


We all relaxed. "Wow," I said, "Can you imagine if you said that prayer and then that was it!?"

Hong-hoo, hong-hoo, hong--


We looked at him. We looked at each other and waited.

"I think this is it, Dolly**." Mom said.

It was a really unexpected reaction, but I was relieved and felt at peace. I gazed over my dad and I smiled.

***

It's been fifteen and a half months. Father's Day didn't seem as hard last year as it was this year. I may have still been in my relief stage then, which has since worn off. Time has made the sad days fewer and farther between, but Father's Day was really rough. I think I spent two thirds of the day in a state of weepiness and on the couch with the laptop dialed to Pinterest, which helped. (So did the margarita Jamie made me.)

Over future years, I hope to be able to spend Father's Day with my own kids, showing Jamie how much we love him and telling my children stories about their Grandpa Stancliff much in the way Dad told me stories about my Grandpa Stancliff who had passed before I was born. 

My dad left a lot of things behind and has given me so much over the years. I am just so happy to be able to say that the last thing my dad gave me was a smile.

*Buttons has always been my dad's nickname for me.

**Similarly, my mom has always called me Dolly.

Uninspired Funk

I can't help but think that uninspired funk would be a really lousy genre of music. It's also a pretty boring state to exist in. Ehh, that sounds depressing; it's not that bad.

I haven't had the urge to update here in about a week. I could have written about what I did last weekend while Jamie was on a boy's trip in Las Vegas, but even my imagination couldn't come up with any way to make "I sat on the couch and drank wine for two days" sound good. (It was soooo good, though.)

image: explodingdog.com

The lack of commitments made last weekend my oyster. I was going to write! I was going to take photos! I was going to get all of the prints I ordered organized and put in photo albums! Maybe I'd have time for crafts!

I did half of one of those things.

I'm not trying to fool anyone, though. Did get lonely? I had my moments. Did I cry when I watched American Pickers because I really wished my dad could have seen that episode? Definitely. (This super old grumpy-yet-charming man was a set decorator for western movies who was all buddy-buddy with The Duke? Dad! You're missing out, man!) But it really was good.

My weekend to myself wasn't the creative game-changer I thought it would be. It was supposed to get me out of my lull, and I can definitely say that it did not work out that way. At first, this disappointed me, but the days following my funk-filled weekend has allowed me to become appreciative for my uneventful time alone. Having two whole days and nights alone with my thoughts and emotions was somewhat exhausting, but really useful. I may not have gotten much accomplished, creatively, like I had hoped but the couch-time was still very beneficial.

Don't confuse this dreary post with depression. I may be missing my inspiration, but life is good and I am happy. Jamie and I are still having fun and making sure to enjoy our kidlessness. Last night, he let me shave his beard into something adventurous.

I guess I haven't lost all of my creativity...

Out of the Window and Off His Rocker

I gave Chuck a big hug before I left for work yesterday. He really had upset me with his recent antics; I was almost certain he was either lost forever or going to end up dead when he made that jump again on Monday. I'm still having a hard time shaking that he could have been out of my life for good.

I noticed that when I hugged him, he didn't react in his normal way. His usual self would give a quiet grumble or just run off to his bed. He's not a hugger. He likes his space. But yesterday, he didn't grumble or try to get away. He settled in and let me hold him.

He wasn't himself, so I ran back up to the kitchen (on the second level) and eyeballed the windows over the sink.

I should close those. Would he? Nah. Maybe?

I assessed the counter and decided that he could definitely get up there if he really wanted to, so I closed the windows and ran off to work.

Half-way through my day I felt my gut sink. I had this terrible feeling that he was gone again. I talked myself out of it.

None of the windows are open. He'd have had to have grown thumbs and gained dexterity in just three hours to have gotten out. Get back to work.

I came home from work around 3:45 and heard Chuck hit the window with his nose, so before unlocking the door, I glanced over. My eyes widened and my chest slowly filled with air as I walked closer to the window.

Oh. MY. GOD.

I unlocked the door and walked inside the house like a robot and turned toward the living room. Chuck is prancing around my legs, ears back, his body curling to the left and to the right as he wagged his tail and licked the air.

"nnNNNO!" I yelled as I pointed toward his bed. 

Chuck immediately ran into his bed as I stood there, staring in disbelief.

The only time Chuck has been destructive was the first year we had him. He was around a year old when we adopted him, and was still into chewing things. Even then, that was it. He gnawed on my high heels, the corners of the coffee table and, well, that's pretty much it. The only things he had ever destroyed were the toys we gave him that he was allowed to destroy.

I walked upstairs to the kitchen. My heart pounded as I saw stuff from the counter on the floor and dog hair and dirty paw prints on the counter.

That [expletive deleted] actually did it! 

There was wet nose and slobber marks all over the windows and he had managed to pull little pieces of foam out of the window edges.

I called Jamie and then I cried.

Google told me that dogs usually develop separation anxiety after a major change like a move or an addition or subtraction of people in the household. We have had no major changes and I cannot figure out what has made him like this.

Since he broke the zipper on his pop-up crate (and even if he hadn't, we know that wouldn't keep him contained), we decided to buy him a steel crate. I ran to PetCo while Jamie cleaned up the living room. $135 later, we're going to try this calming aid as well as put Chuck in his crate when we're gone. He's already a fan of his crate. We call it his bed and he spends a lot of time in there with the door open; it's like his own room. He will almost always go directly there when we say "Go to bed."

We crate trained him when we adopted him, but it wasn't difficult. You'd think a rescue dog would come with anxieties and house-breaking issues, but Chuck had none. While we did have to use the treat in the back of the crate trick to get him to voluntarily go in, it didn't take much effort or time before he went in there on his own, just to chill out. Since he had been chewing, we put him in there during the night and when we were gone. I worked at home at the time, so it was mostly just during the night.

This time, however, he's fine at night so he'll only be crated for the 5 or 6 hours that I'm at work. I'm hoping this structure helps and he can get back to normal and I can stop being so stressed, exhausted and mentally spent.

And I thought this guy was the crazy one.

I Panicked

I walked into Subway to grab some lunch before heading to work, late, after yesterday's morning appointments. I walked past two men. They looked about in their 30s, Hispanic, wearing matching red, long sleeve shirts and hats. They were laborers of some sort. We acknowledged each other in a friendly manner as I passed them and strolled in to buy a sandwich.

When I came out of Subway, I saw one of the men standing, looking at his toes. His body language was completely different. I heard a woman say "How did he go down? Was it fast? Slowly?" She was kneeling. The other man was on his back. She had put his head in her lap. His body was lifeless, yet still holding his bagged up sandwich. His eyes were open.

I heard another bystander on the phone with 911.

I panicked.

It didn't come from wanting to step in and offer help but didn't know what to do. I first was frightened when I saw the man's open eyes. Then, as I heard the woman being so calm and stepping in, I assumed she was a nurse and felt comfort that someone knew what to do. But then, this feeling came over me that I knew I couldn't do what she was doing. I wouldn't be able to stay calm, and step in and handle a situation like this.

I'm starting to breathe heavily now. While it reads that I was standing there, watching this, assessing my feelings, I wasn't. This happened in just a few seconds as I walked by. I started crying before I reached my car.

This man was seemingly fine one minute, then on the ground, unresponsive, the next. It immediately turned into a "what if" situation. What if that were someone close to me? Would I be able to handle the situation? Life seemed so fragile to me at that moment, and I panicked.

As I sat in my car, trying to calm down and keep from hyperventilating, a firetruck showed up. This helped put me slightly at ease and the blood that rushed to my head was beginning to recede. I managed to dial the emotions down enough that I could safely drive to work.

My drive was only about five or seven minutes; not long enough to completely calm down and recompose myself. Luckily, I work with women who are understanding and that I can generally talk to about things affecting me.

They saw my red nose and eyes and thought they had given me their colds. They offered me Adavan, and told distracting stories while slouched down in my desk chair, trying to regain my breath. I drank my iced tea from Subway as if I had just finished running a quick mile. In a short time, I was feeling back to normal and ready to get back to my normal work day.

This was written in participation The Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write.

How Do I Do It?

I've always been really good at overwhelming myself. It's a daily struggle that allows me to accomplish just about nothing. I've recently been able to manage this at work to the point where my to-do list doesn't create panic anymore, but I still can't figure it out at home.

I work part time, of my own accord, so I can feel like I contribute rather than leach. Working makes me feel like a grown-up and I've found a job that after a year, still feels like it's worth having. It's the center of my day, and that's where I'm having a problem.

My day begins as a countdown to when I have to go to work. I have a good two hours before I have to start getting ready for work to get things done, but I just can't seem to get any of it started. I have a mental list of all the things that really need done, but that's where the issue lies. I see all of these things and it overwhelms me. I'll never get all of this done! And since I can't find a place to start, I don't do any of it. My common sense tells me to just do something. Anything is better than nothing, but the anythings just seem so big. The floors need scrubbed, the baseboards look like someone played hockey in most of the rooms, and how are we dripping so much stuff down the kitchen cabinet doors?! These, on top of the day-to-day dishes, picking up, sweeping and wiping, are what really overwhelm me. So I put them off until after work. Did I mention I get home early, too?

I get home a little after four, sometimes earlier. This leaves about six hours before we crash out to also get things done, but no. So the things I've put off in the morning are weighing even harder on me, which basically just holds me down. The evenings turn into figuring out dinner and sinking into the couch for quality time with the DVR. 

So how do normal people with full-time jobs keep a clean house? What's missing in my brain that I can't function like a normal person and just do what needs done? If my house is this disastrous now, it's going to be post-apocalyptic once we have kids.

Oh, and guess what else I have to throw on top of this. Exercise. I have to squeeze that into the list, too. We have an elliptical, and it's really great, but don't you know it, I have to use it for it to be effective! My waistline has been ever-expanding the past year and it's gotten to the point where the fat pants I bought a couple months ago are too tight. It's depressive and frustrating. Jamie and I are making an effort to eat healthier. It's been good for dinners, but I struggle with breakfast and lunch. That's another thing to add to my list of things to do, buy healthy things to make breakfast and lunch before work which I'll have to squeeze in somewhere between cleaning the house, working out and showering for work.

There really isn't an answer to this that I'm looking for. I know what I have to do, but I just don't know how to make it happen and have it stick. I just hope to get something done to not make the day a complete loss.

Just do something!