Way Back Machine Memory Jogger

The title above is the subject line of an email my dad sent to me and my siblings a few days ago, and it is definitely apt.  The email contained two links to You.Tube videos of this crazy song, apparently from the 70s, that we found absolutely hilarious as little kids.  What can I say?  We are a bunch of weirdos.  Memories like this from my childhood are one of the many things that make me hopeful that we’ll be able to give Ike a sibling someday in the not-too-awfully-distant future, so he can have someone to share giggles and peals of laughter with, creating memories with his own family’s strange silliness.  Not to say that I’m really anywhere near ready to start taking action now toward that end, or even soon, but it serves as a reminder not to wait too long, either.  It still feels like a greedy thought to imagine another baby coming into our lives, and I don’t assume that it will definitely happen, but I am hopeful enough to allow myself to think about it from time to time.  I love the idea of Ike having a little brother or sister with whom he can someday look back on the funny things they remember from childhood.  He needs someone else who’ll “get” how weird his parents are, and thus are probably going to make them.  I would rather there not be a huge age gap between siblings, so they’ll be able to relate to one another (though I’m sure not always) but again, I know that we certainly don’t always get our druthers when it comes to family building.

Here is the video that gave me such a flashback/flash-forward (skip to the two minute mark if you want to go right to the song – but the first two minutes do contain some supreme oddness that I think is worth watching!):

Fish heads, fish heads,
Rolly-polly fish heads,
Fish heads, fish heads,
Eat them up, yum!

Fish heads, fish heads,
Rolly-polly fish heads,
Fish heads, fish heads,
Eat them up, yum!

In the morning,
Laughing happy fish heads,
In the evening,
Floating in the soup!

{Chorus}

Ask a fish head
Anything you want to,
They won’t answer,
They can’t talk!

{Chorus}

I took a fish head
Out to see a movie,
Didn’t have to pay
To get it in!

{Chorus}
They can’t play baseball,
They don’t wear sweaters,
They’re not good dancers,
They don’t play drums!

{Chorus}

Rolly-polly fish heads
Are never seen drinking cappicino
In Italian resturaunts,
With Oriental women, yeah!

{Chorus x four}

Yeah.

(Link)

I am still laughing at “they don’t wear sweaters, they aren’t good dancers….”

What oddball things from your childhood would you like to pass along to your own child(ren)?  Do you share certain things with your sibling(s), if you have them, that instantly have you laughing, but would make no sense to anyone else?

Seven Years

Tonight we will celebrate having been married for seven years. SEVEN YEARS. That’s crazy. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday, or at least only a few years ago, that we were frantically pulling together last minute details for the ceremony and reception. If you count the three years we were together before the wedding (and why wouldn’t we?), we’re talking about a decade of life together. Most of the time I don’t feel like I’m old enough yet to think about my life in decade-long chunks, but there it is. Nearly a third of my life, and more than a quarter of his, spent together. 


I don’t think I will be getting all mushy and sentimental in this post. It wouldn’t be a true reflection of how we are with each other most of the time. We have our syrupy-sweet moments on occasion, of course, but I doubt anyone would be too interested in those. I mean, gross, right? Nobody wants to hear that love and marriage are all flowers and chocolates and poetry all the time – because if you have an ounce of intelligence and live in the world with the rest of us, you’d know it to be bullshit anyway. I shall not bullshit you. Instead, I think I finally feel ready to make an honest accounting of what we’ve weathered for the past several years, and how it’s affected us. I need to give both Mike and myself credit for at least making it through intact, if not always with a lot of grace.

I would like to be able to say that living through the ugliness of four miscarriages and then finally achieving a successful pregnancy only brought us closer together, and only made us love each other more, and that we only treated each other with gentle understanding through it all…but I can already hear you laughing. Again, that’s not how it was for us. I shall not bullshit you. I can honestly say, however, without bullshit, that we have somehow managed to have enough patience with one another’s coping methods (or lack thereof, at various stages) to still be standing, together, on a firm enough foundation that I think we’ll make it after all. I can’t be too embarrassed to say that there were times, plenty of them and not all in the distant past, when we both surely doubted that we’d ever get here. Having Ike has done wonders for us, but I certainly never thought that finally getting our take-home baby would “fix” anything in our marriage. It’s not his job to the solution to any of his parents’ problems. (We got 99 problems but an Ike ain’t one! Hit me!) We’ve had volatile times, even in recent times: a lot of anger and misunderstanding, piles of resentment, and we have had some of the same arguments over and over again like two dementia patients with no recollection of the first thirty versions of the same fight.

I hate the phrase no regrets. In fact, one of my favorite quotes of all time is, “I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.” (Katharine Hepburn) I have enough sense to regret the dumb things I’ve done and said. At the top of that list would be waiting until after the last miscarriage to seek professional help. I had been floundering unhappily between anxiety and depression and bothatthesametimewheeeeeeisn’tthatfun for years. Years. My fear of the unknown future (will we ever be parents, and if so, how in the fuck will we accomplish that feat?) blotted out my ability to enjoy nearly anything as it was happening in the present. Yet I was unable to even admit that I wanted to be a mother, because that meant facing the fact that I may not ever become one. I was grieving the losses of multiple potential children yet unable to think of them as potential children. Heartbroken, yet afraid to apply the word to myself. Deep in denial. I wasted a lot of time like that. And all the while, Mike was grieving, too. On his own, basically. I can now see that I was absolutely unable to be any decent kind of support system for him because I was too busy with my own anxieties. This was incredibly unfair to him, and I regret it.

I can only tell my side of the story, in fairness. I’m sure that if he wrote his side, it wouldn’t paint me in a very pretty light. Now that we’ve crossed that line of becoming parents can I see that if I had helped myself sooner, I’d have been better able to help him at the same time, and we could have helped each other. Instead, I sank deeper and deeper into my worries, and he, well, he ran away. I spent more time than I like to remember (not that I could forget if I tried) alone, dampening the ever present what-if internal monologue with crappy TV and pints of ice cream. He wasn’t able to deal with me in that state, so he spent a lot of time elsewhere. I couldn’t reach out, and he couldn’t reach in, because the wall of fear I’d assembled was pretty much impenetrable, even when he tried. Eventually he stopped trying, I think. I don’t blame him for that. You can only be shot down so many times before you stop trying to stand back up. At some point during my pregnancy, though, I had to start believing that we were on our way to a baby. At least, I had to believe it enough to try to convince him of the same. But without going through the physical transformation, I think it was a lot harder for him to believe it. When I was ready to nest, he wasn’t. I think he still was afraid to believe we were finally going to get what we wanted. Now when I reread my posts from that time in my pregnancy, I realize that I sound frantic. I never thought he would actually abandon me, and he wouldn’t, but I felt abandoned. Before, it was just me, so most of the time I didn’t mind being left alone with my sadness and worries. But now there was a baby on the way and I was furious that he’d go hang out with his friends when we had so much left to do. Wait. I can’t leave that all in the past tense without it being a bit bullshitty – I am still pissed about that, to be honest. I wanted the last few weeks of my pregnancy to be about joyful anticipation and pampering, and I felt cheated out of it by the one person I’d hoped would want to do everything in his power to make it that way. On some level I knew that he was having a hard time as well, and his way of escaping was just to escape, but with all the pregnancy anxiety and hormones I wasn’t able to articulate any empathy. In the past couple of weeks he has really started to comprehend why I’ve been so angry, and feeling like he understands is more than half the battle. I know that we still have a lot of work to do to make up for lost time, but after all the heartache and sadness we’ve been through, it’s such a relief to finally feel like we’re on solid ground again. We have so much to look forward to, after so long spent not knowing if we had anything but more heartache in store for us.

The passing of time is almost always bittersweet, I think. We’ve had our share of bitter for a good long while, so I hope we can keep on enjoying this sweetness we waited so long to taste.

September 17, 2005
June 18, 2012

Still alive!

Frankie is still kicking (well, not really kicking yet but you know).  Frankie?  I dunno.  Peanut?  That’s about the size s/he is (out of the shell, in my RE’s words).  Maybe we’ll just go with Lightly Salted.  I kind of like that. There is an inexplicable (I will try, but be prepared for it to make zero sense) episode from my childhood in which my dad brought home some airline peanut packets (yep, dating myself here) from a business trip for us (what a treat!), and something about the way he said the phrase ‘lightly salted peanuts’ was absolutely pee-your-pants hilarious to my sister and me.  Completely dissolved into fits of giggles.  For at least an hour, probably.

Yeah.  Nonsensical.

Anyway, the heart rate is up to 154 beats per minute and he/she/it is measuring 7w4d.  That’s only one day behind 7w5d by LMP, so I guess we could say s/he’s made up a day or two since last week.  Don’t know if that’s really the right way to think of that, but last time we measured 2 or 3 days behind based on LMP.  Seems like good progress! CRL is 13.35 mm, so looking something like this creepy thing or this maybe slightly less creepy thing.  If you really want a fright go back and check out Carnegie Stage 15.  Yikes!  Glad we’re past that and moving onto stuff like gonads and nipples.  Wheeee!

I am clearly still not quite grasping that this is, like, real.  I get to keep going back weekly until 10 or 12 weeks.    I think that will help, though part of me is going to continue to be terrified every time that the heartbeat will just cease to be there.  I have no real reason to think that will happen, it’s just that I know that it does happen.  I am very encouraged; this is definitely the farthest (furthest?  I hate that one) we’ve ever gotten – maybe not date-wise, but definitely signs-point-to-good-wise.  They said today that I’ll discontinue heparin and progesterone after the first trimester.  Progesterone, fine, yes.  At that point the placenta should be doing its job and I am fully aware that supplementing won’t prevent miscarriage anyway.  The heparin I think I may be nervous about stopping.  I never actually tested positive for APS, and was never tested for MTHFR, homocysteine levels being normal, so I have no concrete reason to think I should continue it, but…I can’t help but fear a rogue clot in the placenta or the umbilical cord or…whatever else worst case scenario I haven’t even come across yet.  On the other hand, I won’t miss the bruising.  Maybe by 15 weeks or so my stomach won’t look like it lost a bar fight anymore.  See?  I am thinking I will get that far, it’s just…weird to have these thoughts.  I never wanted to give up and not try at all, but it seems like my mind was trying to prepare more than I consciously realized for the possibility that it would never even get this far. It’s a strange yet perfectly logical dichotomy of sorts.  Trying to acknowledge it and leave it be, not poke at it too much. Also, they’ll back me off the metformin at some point.  I’m on the fence about that one, too.  Studies have gone both ways on whether it may actually help prevent miscarriage or not.  It has, however, been shown to reduce the incidence of gestational diabetes.  A restricted diet does not sound like any fun at all, but…again, I never showed any definite signs of insulin resistance, and cart way the hell ahead of the horse on that anyway.

One. day. at. a. time.    

I hate today.

For more than the obvious reasons.  Yes, what happened in NYC nine years ago was awful and tragic and certainly worth remembering, to a certain extent.  I can’t even give that whole Koran burning thing the time of day, it’s just so moronic.  I almost wish I had a more “patriotic” bent (I guess nationalistic would be a better word) so I could somehow focus on that instead of my own selfish flashback to four years ago.  I didn’t even start this blog until November of 2006, but what I experienced on 9/11/06 was the real impetus.  So here’s a repost from December 2006, when I finally got brave enough to say outside my own home what was breaking my heart.

I don’t want to ride this rollercoaster again in June, so fuck it. How to lose two months and seven pounds without even trying: 9/9: Get really excited about having real sushi and sake for the first time, even if it is with the people that get on your nerves with their ‘we have so much more money than you so we must be so much better than you’ attitude. Think, ‘hmmm….maybe I should take a pregnancy test, just in case, before I go eating raw fish and pounding sake.’ Do so. Do not believe your eyes. Feel like you’re 14. Sit down, start shaking. Realize that last weekend you sat around a fire drinking four beers and smoking cigarettes. Feel sick. Get dressed, go to dinner. Try not to give yourself away by sticking your pinky finger in PM’s sake and ordering only cooked items. Fail miserably. Be informed that you’re fooling nobody by not smoking, not drinking, and oh, we’re being ‘too nice’ to each other. That one’s my favorite. Sleep fitfully. Freak out about work. Try not to think that this just isn’t going to work out well. Try to have faith. Try not to get too excited. Try way too fucking hard to function. 9/11: Wake up bleeding. Take another test. Be really confused. Call off, call the doctor, try to put up your feet and relax, but realize there’s nothing on TV but 9/11 tributes, so cry all day. 9/12: Go to the doctor, give blood. Go to work, tell boss. Vaguely hear something about PPE and try not to throw up. Google ‘hcg’ repeatedly despite knowing damn well it’s not a party trick and I can’t MAKE the number double. 9/14: Give more blood. Get bad news. Go home and proceed directly to totally but very uncomfortably numb. *********************************************************************************** Feel much better after writing this.

Live Learn Love Listen Laugh and CELEBRATE

I should not wallow, I should celebrate, even though I don’t get to see her this weekend.  Will just have to wait a couple weeks.  Today is my dear beautiful sister’s birthday!  She’s gorgeous and hilarious, as evidenced by tagged photos of her on Facebook (I limited myself to that album or this would never end):

She dresses up as an American Gladiator for Halloween.

She wears pink feather boas in big box stores.

She likes butterflies

She can pull off camo, apparently.

She will brush your hair and laugh at your silly faces.

She names plastic dinosaurs things like Klaus and Hans and Jacques-Pierre and takes them out for drinks.

She loves her friends and makes them family.

She makes excellent fish faces.

She loves Lady Gaga

I don’t know, but it makes me laugh.

She will let you wear the sunglasses that make you invisible in the bar.

She does handstands in Ireland.  And gets paid for it.  

She looks cute in pigtails and doesn’t care if we have the same T-shirt.  In fact, she bought me this one.

She’s so smart.

I just love her.

She gets me.

We lurve our brudder, too.

He totally tolerates us.

She did many perfect pirouettes on my wedding day.

I better start practicing for hers.  Her dress must have pockets.  Non-negotiable!

She is portable.

She is witty.

She looks adorable next to tall dudes.

Snow is no obstacle for her.

She is skeptical of the enormous pink sombrero.

She thinks ‘staches are funny too.

She’s a supa star!

We are definitely blood related.

She is a tasty vamp.

Always practices good taste.

Like wearing yellow high heels while mourning the passing of her favorite vehicle.

I need to start thinking about toasting her next August, though I’ll never even try to compete with the lovely toast she made to us.  Eloquence at its most sincere best, she is.

Much unpleasantness ensues

Yuck.  That about sums it up, actually.

So yesterday was the sonohystogram.  Woohoo, dildo cam!  Ugh.  Not…pleasant.  I mean, you know it’s going to be fun when they recommend four ibuprofen four to six hours before, then a repeat dose an hour before.  Which I did.  I think I should have tripled it because OW.  I mean.  Ow.  I could think of plenty more pleasant ways to spend thirty minutes.

But the good news is nothing at all abnormal…mostly…I think.  No fibroids or polyps or other weirdness…but they count follicles on ovaries – one wasn’t viewable from the right angle or something because of a large one (which he didn’t seem concerned about and I’m not playing Dr. Google today), but the other had twelve.  Which is the line for a PCOS indicator.  I thought he said more than ten usually is, but I was sort of breathing through some ridiculous cramping and all I could really think was CAN YOU GET THAT THING OUT OF MY CERVIX YET? and this here thing says more than twelve.  So…woohoo, still no real answers!  But it makes sense to me.  This is starting to feel like a somewhat futile investigation, but I will still do the pincushion thing next week.  I mean, who doesn’t find hormone levels interesting?  Not me!  It will be interesting to see if I have any insulin resistance.  My grandma had diabetes.  She also lost at least one pregnancy that I know of…came up in some conversation well after her passing.  I guess it was far enough along that there’s a grave somewhere, but they didn’t name the baby.  So sad.

Oh, hey, look at that!  My genealogy buff cousin has photos up on one of the tree sites.  Sweet.  Here she is  at eighteen, 1932:  (link)

Cute as a button, that Carmel Cappabianco.  Awww.  That would have been four years before she married Grandpa.

So.  Yeah.  I really dunno where I was going with that.  To top it off, the antibiotic they prescribed as a precaution for the test decided to make me violently ill this morning.  So…gross.  People should never have to vomit unless they’re drunk or…pregnant, I guess.  Dammit.  Okay, full circle.  We’re done here.  For now.  Nap time, if I am lucky.