7lbs 13oz

Mom and baby doing great.

And for those of you who’ve been playing along awhile – you’ll laugh at this: My parents left for Hawaii on Saturday to take my dad’s group on tour.

Same place they were when the twins were born.

This should be interesting.

 But Yay!!! I’m going to be an auntie today!!! 10 points if you know what the title reference is.

I’ll update when I know more…

Anyway, yesterday, J didn’t eat much – there was a lot going on in our house. We had friends over who have a baby (5month old) boy and are pregnant with twins as well. There was a lot of playing and such, so eating wasn’t her priority. Typical for her. Before bed, I gave them some tylenol, because if their heads feel anything like mine, it would at least help a little.

This morning, they were both in our bed by 5 am. That’s actually a good stretch for us. But J was acting really weird. Usually once she’s up, she’s up. But she would walk around, then lay down on the floor. She laid in bed with me for a bit and slept. She said “poopy” which usually means time for a diaper change – so we went to the kids room. She practically fell asleep on the changing table naked. I started to get really concerned. This kind of behavior is really out of character.

We went downstairs, and she laid on the floor again. I brought a sippy of milk over and she didn’t even get up. We made her a waffle, and she sat on my lap on the couch. She was shaking. I asked H if we should take her to urgent care. She said for what? I said “lethargy and the shaking?”. She said let’s hold off, maybe she’s just not feeling good.

Almost on cue, J PROJECTILE vomited all over H. Twice.

After a shower with H, a bath with me (so H could actually wash the ick off of her), she seems to be back to normal, just with a cold. We think the lack of food, and all the excess snot upset her belly.

Man for a little girl that girl can puke. And watch out if you hear her say “poopy” because apparently that means – “the first few rows may get wet.”

Yesterday, I was driving home from work on one of those rare days when I didn’t carpool with H. As I was driving on the long stretch of main road just off the freeway, I zoned a little bit. I was lost in the radio or something, who knows. Anyway, as a result, the car sort of drifted to the left (I was in the left lane). I didn’t cross into the other lane, nor would I have (I was paying attention, just on auto-pilot) and it wasn’t even one of those situations where you feel the need to jerk the car back to center. I just drifted a bit too close to the white line for the lady next to me’s taste. She honked. I raised my right hand as if to say, “Sorry,” all the while thinking, “Geez, lady, chill.” Whatever.

About a mile and a half later, I notice she’s pulled behind me. It’s two lanes both directions, and there’s a lot of lane changing after work because people get impatient. It doesn’t make it go any faster, just pisses people off considerably. I generally stay to the left unless someone is egregious in their driving and then I’ll move to pass them (I define egregious on this road as driving 30 in the 45 zone when everyone drives 50).

Another mile (we’re far off the freeway) and I go to make a right turn and notice she’s still behind me. Nothing odd there, there’s a lot of houses in BFE where we live, so many of us at that time are headed the same direction. When I went to turn left without my signal and she was still behind me, I started to get this sense that something wasn’t quite right. I took a right turn I don’t normally take, that will get me home, but it’s not efficient and it’s a turn you really only take if you live right on that street. She followed.

I started to feel my heart beating faster. Was this lady following me? And for what purpose? Because I came too close to the white line for her taste? What was she going to do if I stopped? Scream at me? Get physical? Did she have a gun? Seriously, all sorts of irrational thoughts come into your head when all of a sudden you realize some crazy road rage bitch is following you.

Although I questioned that she was following me because I could see her in my rear-view mirror. She had salt-and-pepper short hair, looked to be in her early 50s, late 40s if I’m being generous. She looked totally calm, like anyone else driving home. She was in a white Sub.aru (I think) and I was starting to get too freaked out to remember her plates. She looked like a normal older suburban grandma.

As I rounded the corner I made the turn like I was going home, but instead of turning into our cul-de-sac, I kept going. She followed. Now, there are any number of turns she could have taken if she lived around here, but she didn’t. So I kept driving, crossed a major through road that goes between our housing development and another. She followed.

By then, I was convinced, and I was scared. I picked up my cell and called H. “Hey, this crazy bitch is following me because I almost crossed the line driving on Big Road and I don’t know what to do.” “Come home, I’ll be waiting out front.” “Ok…”

Through this whole conversation I’m weaving my way through the streets of the housing complex, making it clear that I’m on to her and not stopping. But when H said come home, I figured it couldn’t be worse than driving around until she gives up. So I set up to cross back over the through road I had crossed previously, and she followed. Halfway through the intersection, she turned and disappeared.

What the f*ck is wrong with people? Hell, if I had cut her off or actually merged into her lane, I could understand her being pissed off and shaking her fist at me shouting obscenities, but usually that kind of thing is over a half a block later. But to calmly track me on what ended up being a wild goose chase — I mean I dragged that on for almost 15 minutes. Do people have nothing better to do?

He comes home Thursday.

Later that night, after I had put them down for bed, we sat downstairs listening to J yell N’s nickname over and over. She does this when he has fallen asleep before her. Usually she’ll stop, but sometimes we have to go up to tell her to go to sleep and not to wake him up – that’s it’s not nice. So after about 10 minutes of her yelling for him, I went upstairs.

Usually when I go upstairs to settle them, I try not to turn the light because I don’t want both of them to be awake. This means that I often have to blindly search for blankies and binkies on the floor. I knelt down to look for J’s binky only to find a dry diaper on the floor – and I was forced to turn the light on. And there was my skinny little daughter, in all her naked glory, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

I lifted her out of bed and held her in front of me as I came down the stairs, and asked H if she was willing to claim her. We laughed, and I diapered her back up, and put her back in her jammies – but this time I turned them backwards so the zipper was in the back. I figured that would deter her for next time.

Thus ended Naked Wednesday.

Apparently, tonight J was confused as to what day it was, because a few moments ago I went up after hearing her yell N’s nickname over and over, and found her in her Wednesday uniform. She’s in backwards pj’s again. Do they make diapers that secure in the back?

Now imagine you made that noise in front of a peanut of an almost two-year-old.

That same little two-year-old will look at you sideways and then say…

“Fot.”

The thing is, during dinner, I was acutely aware that I’m super frustrated by two little beings who, along with my wife, constitute the meaning for my existence. I feel incredibly guilty being frustrated by them, especially as I read the trials of those still trying or dealing with loss.

Part of me feels like I’ve fallen into the role of the “that” mom, the one who looks forward to Mondays at work on days when the kids are crabby, the one who bitches about the same kids she loves so much on days like today, and the one who sounds like the biggest ass complaining about all of it when so many would kill to be in my shoes.

I feel like I should apologize. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how hard it was to come by my kids, and it’s not that I don’t think about every friend and blogger I read out there still struggling. And it’s not as though the irony is lost on me when I think about what will likely be my lone FET cycle in the beginning of ’09.

It’s that idea of being a “recovered” infertile. I have kids. And now, in so many ways, I’m no different than the Moms who never had to deal with the pain of endo, surgery, and IVF. And it’s hard to balance in my head the responsibility I feel to my fellow infertiles with the day to day experiences of simply being a mom.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like anyone would miss me in the infertile set. It’s sort of how I feel about a particular moms board I post on (albeit rarely). I don’t write as well as most, I certainly don’t have the insight that others have, and I clearly don’t subscribe to a lot of the “alternative” parenting theories that would allow me membership into some of the clubs out there.

I guess for me, it’s enough to remind myself to take a deep breath and try to enjoy the fun times more than I am frustrated by the trying ones. And if infertility is what it takes to remind me of that, then I’m grateful for that membership card — even if it’s tucked in the back of my wallet behind the tattered Tar.get card and the never-used gym member card.