Warning: Profanity Ahead

When I communicate with other people on-line -- whether here in this blog, in other people's comments sections, or on LiveJournal -- I tend to avoid profanity at all costs. I do that for a few reasons, the most important ones being that I know that some people find it offensive, I don't think it's typically necessary, and while some bloggers have a way of weaving curse words into their prose in a way that's practically cute, in my writing I think it just sounds harsh. With all of that in mind, I have generally avoided a virtual potty mouth.

Until today.

I've had it. No, excuse me. I've fucking had it.

For the last year we have tried to make a baby and I've slapped this ridiculous Pollyanna attitude on the whole thing and I'm not sure why. In the beginning I was a little surprised that it wasn't going as easily as it did with Eli (who was conceived on the second month; when I was 37; boy was I lucky) but didn't get too down, aside from the to-be-expected pouting and disappointment. Then when more than a few months had gone by I complained, but only infrequently. And as it became clearer that things might not go our way immediately, or even ever, I still tried to put a bright shiny spin on the whole damn situation, telling people "We're very open to adoption" and "I realized recently that it's very exciting not to know where the next member of your family is going to come from" and "No, I really don't mind talking about it." More recently, my sound bytes have been along the lines of "We're open to all possibilities" and "I'm so lucky to have Eli,"* but the general idea is the same: "Yes, I know we're in this unenviable situation but look how gracefully I'm handling it! Surely you envy that, don't you?"

While painting on this happy face, I also dutifully request book after book after book from the library, devouring them as if the very process will alter the fibers of my being that so desperately want another biological child. I finish each one feeling more educated about our options, but still not really wanting them. I also scour the web for information on even more possibilities, again hoping that just the accumulation of a virtual mountain of information will change how I feel in my heart.

Simultaneously, we spend every cycle giving it our best shot. I chart my temperatures in a somewhat obsessive way (that's the researcher in me, insisting on complete data sets). After the thermometer beeps its shrill little beep I leap out of bed and eagerly log the daily nugget of information into Fertility Friend, as though each reading above the cover line is money in the bank - what bank, I'm not quite sure. Maybe some bank that sells healthy biological offspring for 98.6 cents. And I pee on my ovulation predictor paraphernalia so often that if I tell Eli I have to go, he responds with "On a stick!" And David and I faithfully do that baby dance until we just. can't. do. it. again. And every month we get nothing.

Excuse me: Fucking nothing. Also affectionately known as Jack Shit.

I'm tired of being positive about this. I'm tired of being emotionally removed from it. I'm tired of being reasonable. I'm tired of being optimistic. I'm tired of being a pillar of strength. Mostly I'm just tired.

A few days ago my temperature took a nose dive and I thought to myself, Great. This one's done and it's only a 22 day cycle. Of course I did the obligatory googling about implantation dips and was able to convince myself that it might be so. And then when, the next day, my temperature did shoot back up like a beautiful rocket full of pointless dreams, I thought This could be it! I kept my enthusiasm in check - after the 7-7-7 debacle I knew better. But I did hope, quietly and just a little. But it should have come as no surprise that this morning my temperature had sunk even lower than that first dip. And I've begun to feel that old familiar feeling, and Aunt Flo, that old biddy, she's on her way. And once again the dream has died.

And I'm so fucking over this.

*By the way, I don't think it needs to be said and yet, somehow, it must be said: I know how lucky I am to have this kid. I know how lucky I am to have conceived him so easily. I know how lucky I am to have conceived him at all. I know how lucky I am to have a healthy child. I know how lucky I am to have a child. My bitching and moaning should not take away from that at all. But focusing only on that is what leads me down that Pollyanna path and I've begun to realize that that's not healthy for me because it doesn't acknowledge all of what I'm feeling. Sometimes I need to bitch and moan because even though my entire heart is full of love for my one and only, I'm greedy, and I want more.

I have real troubles.

I went to a birthday party with Eli this morning. The party was at an indoor playground and the group of us (about 10 families) had the run of the place. It gave me plenty of time to window shop off other people's bodies. Am I the only who does this? I don't have time to actually go to a store these days so I just look at what other people are wearing and if I like it enough, I ask them where they got it. Sometimes if I'm feeling shy I just memorize the details and - like some kind of ridiculous, expensive game - I google the heck out of some search terms and see if I can find it on its own. (Yeah, as I'm typing this, I think I probably am the only person who does this.)

In any case... this morning I wasn't feeling shy and one of the other moms had THE BAG I've been looking for. I didn't know that was the bag I was looking for until I saw it, but when I saw it, I knew it was it. The time has come, you see, for me to shed the diaper bag in favor of something a little more purse-like, a little less bulky. I can't go down to a cute little thing only big enough for a cell phone and a wallet (we haven't hit potty training yet, for goodness sake) but I can downsize from the cavernous Skip*Hop I've been carting around for the last two and a half years.

When I shop for something like a purse, I am picky. Very picky. I'm frugal (somewhat, anyway) so the thing has to be relatively timeless, or at least far enough from trendy that I won't look like a giant dork a year from now. It can't be flashy because I'm not changing bags every other day to coordinate with my outfits. And, for this particular purchase, it still has to be practical, with pockets and a strap I can use like a messenger bag. And, finally, above all else, it can't be frumpy because I get there pretty easily on my own, thankyouverymuch.

So there it was. The bag. I saw. I wanted. I hadn't chatted with this mom yet so I had to make a decision: to ask or not to ask. I sized her up. From what she was wearing I thought to myself, "I probably can't afford this bag." If she was going to tell me, "Oh, I got it at Neiman Marcus, on sale, only $380!" I just didn't want to know. But then I thought, "But I must have that bag. Must. Have." So I asked. The answer? The Gap! Score! I can do that! Even full price I could probably swing it. She said that her friend had it and she had to have it; they didn't have it in the stores anymore but she had ordered it on-line. My naptime plans were hatched.

With Eli snuggled cozy in his bed, I eagerly went to gap.com, credit card in hand. Click on "women." (Heart racing.) Click on "accessories." (Anticipation mounting.) Click on "handbags." (I can taste it!) Scroll, scroll.... DANGIT! No bag.

Head over to ebay. (Optimism waning.) Enter every possible combination of words like "Gap" "messenger" "canvas" "strap" "adjustable" "pockets." (Reality settling in.) DANGIT! Scroll, scroll, scroll some more, scroll again. No bag.

Head over to Old Navy, hoping they've done what they usually do and that some knock off exists there. (Enthusiasm fading.) And what we have at the top of this post is known as a "close but no cigar."

And with that, I have given up. Real troubles, I tell you. Real troubles, indeed.

Scrooge

I am well on my way to becoming one of those crazy old ladies who stands on her front porch screaming nonsensical orders at innocent people who happen to travel by. It's sad but true.

Eli has been napping for an hour and forty five minutes and I like it. I want to keep him sleeping because it is quiet and I am content. So the fact that my neighbors across the street (teenagers) are outside playing basketball does not please me. The "thud" "thud" "thud" was not awful. Sort of a rhythmic white noise and Eli was sleeping through it. Then they brought the dog outside. The dog barked. Quiet! You... DOG! (That was in my head.) Neighbor girl yelled at the dog. While the sentiment was appreciated from this side of my front door, the noise level was not. Quiet! You... neighbor girl!

These are not the only noises that I think of as my nemesis. The worst one? The &%$*! ICE CREAM TRUCK! The damn thing manages to circle our house several times, almost always during nap time. There have been a couple of exceptions which only means that Eli has seen it and now when he hears it but doesn't get to the window in time to see it, we have a problem. He spends the rest of the day whining "Want mucack (music) truck!" (Yes, I told him it's a music truck. I don't think he really needs to know what's inside there, do you?)

So, yeah, I'm the crazy lady who utters obscenities at the sounds of children and animals playing and at the ice cream truck. Great.