What's For Dinner?

When we first moved in together, I burned through my arsenal of recipes,including a dish my mom used to make: Chicken and Rice.

When Tanya and I first started living together, we were both excited to show off how well we could cook.  One night she made the most amazing meatloaf I’ve ever had in my life.  Other nights she’d introduce me to her Sloppy Joes, Beef Stroganoff, chicken pot pie, lasagna, and the list goes on.  For her I made some of my specialties like grilled pork chops, potato salad, grilled cheese, risotto, polenta, Caesar salad, and the list goes on.  I think most people have a repertoire of things they make and they run through that when the question, “What’s for dinner?” comes  

up.

When we first became CSA (community supported agriculture) subscribers to a local farm, Whistling Train Farm, we encountered a problem.  We couldn’t just eat tacos on Tuesday or whip up a bowl of mashed potatoes when our mood demanded them.  We had all this produce we needed to use each week and sometimes there were things in our weekly basket we had no idea how to use.  Sometimes we just got plain sick of eating what we were given and had to find creative, new ways to use it.  The first winter we were subscribers, we had beets every single week for 12 weeks straight.  And Tanya HATED beets.  She hated beets though because she remembered the pickled old-people beets of her youth that came out of a can and ended up on some social gathering next to pickled herring and bread and butter pickles.  They taste a little different when they are orange heirloom beets, tossed in a little olive oil and roasted with some grey salt and cracked black pepper.  The point is, if we were going to do this, we had to be committed and we had to get creative.

We started to examine how to use preexisting recipes and techniques, tweaking them to use what we had on hand. One example is the often beloved, technically misunderstood, and not very intimidating once understood, Sushi Roll. We deconstructed the roll ingredient by ingredient and substituted what we could to meet our needs. The only thing that we couldn’t get away from buying in the store was the Japanese sticky rice (one because it is so farkin delicious and two because I love rice).  We did find an organic source, however.  I think it’s also important to remember you don’t have to go all in to make small changes. Replace one ingredient for something easy.  In this instance, we couldn’t get organic nori, the seaweed paper used to make sushi rolls, so we substituted it with blanched swiss chard.  

Here's a short instructional video about how to roll sushi in general.  Keep in mind, we've replaced the nori with blanched chard.

First I steamed the rice in a rice cooker.  For me, this means 1 cup of organic Japanese sticky rice to every 1 1/4 cup of water.  I added a little rice wine vinegar once it was done.  I realize sushi chefs train for years just to learn making rice before they ever even look at a fish, but it is what it is--let's get dinner on the table.

Next I got all the vegetables julienned and roasted off some pork the night before and shredded it.  You can use whatever combination of vegetables, fish, or other ingredients you choose.  It isn't the ingredients that matter, but the concept that sushi can be adapted to whatever you have and will be a nutritious and filling meal.  Unless of course you eat sushi in Mississippi where it's deep friend and sauced with mayonnaise.

Once the fillings were prepped, I got the chard ready by bringing a shallow, wide pot filled halfway with boiling water.  Next to it, I had a bowl of ice water to blanch the leaves to stop the cooking process once they came out of the boiling water.  You only want to soften the leaves and turn them bright green--cooking too long will compromise the leaf's integrity, making rolling the sushi difficult.

Once they are blanched, cut the tough rib out of the center.

I set all the ingredients aside and got plates ready.  I wrapped my sushi mat with plastic wrap to keep the rice from sticking and layered the chard leaves on top of that.  Then I added a thin layer of rice, not coming all the way to the edges.  To that I added vegetables and the shredded pork in the center.  I rolled the sushi and cut it into six pieces with a very sharp knife, being careful not to push on it and saw, but rather slice the roll gently so as not to crush it.

When we set out on this adventure, we didn't always know what to expect.  Cooking isn't like baking--it's very forgiving.  And even if everything fell apart, we could have just eaten this dinner as a bowl of rice and it still would have been delicious.  Don't be afraid to step outside of the box.   You never know what is waiting there for you.  While we still make Sloppy Joes, cheddar polenta, chicken pot pie and Caesar salad, we make new things too.  It turns out, we have some favorites we didn't even know about.

The Power of Might

"I wish I could go back and tell myself when I was going through fertility treatments that none of the pain is going to matter and those feelings I felt then were gone the moment I held my baby."  

This is what I thought when I was full of hope to have another baby when we first began fertility treatments again last February.  All the pain was gone when I held August for the first time, but I never knew if I would get to that moment until I held her.  We sailed through the first few months on the high of having a newborn, feeling like our bad luck was finally over.  Stupidly, we listened to everyone tell us my body might just know what to do after the first baby, that I might be super fertile after giving birth.

Well they were wrong and I'm mad at myself for believing them because here we are, all over again and I'm not quite sure if I'll ever get to the other side again.  I'm mad at everyone who told me to go to college, buy a house, wait until I was settled before having a baby because lots of women are having babies in their late thirties and early forties.  None of the women who told me that were ever women who had babies in their forties--they were all women who had children too young and now regretted they hadn't lived, that they hadn't gone to college.  Well how many of those women who go to college and have a career first get babies compared to how many wanted babies and have to be satisfied with just their career?  How many of them had to at some point, face the music and realize their bodies just weren't physically capable of creating life anymore?  I know we might be at that point.  But I keep fighting because I don't want to look back one day and regret I gave up what could have been for what might have been.  Those other women can always go to college.  This is my last chance to have another baby.

 Today at my doctor appointment, I didn't have the useless advice from well-meaning friends telling me to relax or take some ridiculous combination of Chinese herbs and I might get pregnant.  I didn't have the backing of a thousand facebook friends telling me they will pray for me and it might work.  I didn't have people telling me to just adopt or stop trying and it might happen on its own.  What I had was the undeniable blood test and an experienced doctor telling me my estrogen level should be around 100; it was 34.  I had the ultrasound results showing only five small follicles when I should have at least 10 to 20 given I'm on 450 IUs of Gonal-F and 150 IUs of Menopur, an extremely high dose.  I had the doctor telling me she has seen people get pregnant with these numbers, but she might have to cancel the cycle and try again.  I was left with a sinking feeling that perhaps it's time to think about moving on from the idea we might be able to give August a sibling.

August and her cousin

I don't know how I can feel anything but anger right now.  I'm trying not to though; I'm trying to focus on the positive and that all hope isn't lost and we do after all have this incredible little toddler.  But right now, in this moment, I just need to be angry.  It doesn't help that my nightly injections are like feeling chameleons--they can somehow figure out whatever I am feeling and intensify it by a thousand, so if I'm sad, it's Niagara Falls and Duane gets to help put the pieces of my world crumbling on the dirty floor below me that needs to be vacuumed but I don't have time and how am I supposed to get everything done with all this filth and then it all just crashes down as my feelings become a runaway train of darkness. 

The worst part about all of this isn't the side effects of the drugs or how it affects me emotionally, mentally and physically.  It's coming to the realization that we didn't have hindsight in the beginning--we had to go through all of this just to get here.  And now that we are here, we have all this pain, sadness, emptiness, guilt, anger, regret, rage, and the echoing hollow question every single day: why this is our path, why us?  And we still might not get to have another baby.

I realize we might still get pregnant this IVF cycle or during another if we have to cancel this month.  I know all hope isn't lost.  The biggest corner I turned today, though, is that it might be.  It might just be August is an only child.  It might just be my body can't get pregnant again.  It might just be that we are at the end of this part of our journey and what lies ahead for us is accepting it.  I hope it's not, but it might be.  Despite what might happen, I will continue to fight.

Chicken Pot Pie

This is a fairly simple homemade chicken pot pie that is very forgiving and the recipe isn't exact.  It makes six to eight servings, depending on how many ladles of filling you prefer.  I thaw just enough puff pastry for the evening's dinner and I freeze the rest of the filling in quart freezer bags in portions perfect for another meal.  For this particular recipe, it makes three meals--one that we will eat now and two quart-sized freezer bags that I can pull out, thaw, ladle into oven-safe crocks or bowls and top with puff pastry for a quick weeknight meal.  This is everything you want from a chicken pot pie.  You could certainly substitute turkey or even go meatless and pack in the veggies.

1lb boneless, skinless chicken (white, dark or a combination), cut into bite sized pieces
6-8 c diced vegetables (I use celery, onion, broccoli, peas, carrots and mushrooms but you could use beans, potatoes, spinach, parsnips, or any other favorite vegetable.)
1 to 2 tsp dried thyme (you can use fresh thyme, just use about 1 tbsp finely minced instead
3 dried bay leaves
1 tsp dried rosemary, or 2 tsp fresh rosemary finely minced
1 tsp garlic powder or a couple cloves of finely minced fresh garlic
1 tsp black or 1/2 tsp white pepper
1 to 2 quarts chicken stock
1 c dry white wine
1 to 2 c half and half (to taste)
1/2 c to 1 c cornstarch mixed into a slurry with cold water
1 pkg puff pastry (found in the freezer aisle near the desserts) OR 1 package refrigerated pie dough OR any recipe of biscuit or dumpling--we prefer the puff pastry and that's what is pictured here
1 egg, lightly beaten
1/2 to 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese (depending on how many you are making)
1 to 2 tbsp sliced almonds

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees if you are using puff pastry.  If you are using biscuit dough, pie dough, or dumplings, preheat the oven to whatever temperature your recipe calls for to cook it.  If you would normally cook biscuits at 350 degrees, then preheat the oven to that.  Honestly though, this recipe is so forgiving that if you just put the oven at 375 degrees and cook the pot pie until whatever crust you put on it is brown, the filling will still be amazing.

In a 6 or 8 quart pot, add the wine, one quart of chicken stock, herbs and seasonings (don't add the salt yet) and the raw chicken.  Bring this to a boil and let it simmer uncovered.  And since the bottle of chardonnay is open, pour yourself a glass and start chopping vegetables.  Make sure you've thoroughly sanitized the area where you cut up the chicken.  Cross contamination is a huge concern when working with raw meats, especially chicken.

Side Note: We only use organic chicken.  You will never eat factory-farmed chicken again if you knew what happens to it.  This is a rare meal for us and a special one because organic chicken isn't that cheap.  If you are really ambitious, you could buy a whole, organic fryer and cut the meat off the bone and use it for the pot pie.  Save the wings and the carcass and make chicken stock from it along with all the vegetable scraps you will get from this dish.  If you haven't got the time tonight, toss the raw carcass along with the scraps into a gallon freezer bag and just start adding vegetable scraps to it and make stock another day when you have a little more time.  I'll post a blog later about how to make stock, but for now, start saving the vegetable scraps and meat bones in a gallon freezer bag.  Even save those onion skins and carrot peels!

Next, start chopping.  Tonight I used a combination of what I had on hand and what I like.  Plus this meal is a great way to add extra vegetables August might not eat alone.  I added 3 celery ribs finely diced; 4 peeled, thinly sliced carrots; half a finely diced yellow onion; 4 broccoli heads, stalks removed, cut in to bite-sized pieces; one bag of organic peas; and about 10 sliced crimini mushrooms. Once everything is all chopped up, just add it to the pot.  Turn the heat up to bring it back to a rolling boil.  At this point, you will want to assess your broth.  If you need some more stock or wine, add it to just barely cover the vegetables.  Make sure the chicken is fully cooked, however, before taste testing the broth.  You will also want to add salt and adjust seasonings at this point.

Once you are happy with the flavors, you can thicken the sauce.  I prefer cornstarch, but use whatever you like to use as a thickener.  You are going to need a lot of cornstarch.  Start with a small mixing bowl and mix 1/2 cup cornstarch with just enough water to cover it and stir.  This is how you make a slurry.  Make sure you've scraped the corners well and there are no lumps.  Slowly add the slurry to the simmering pot pie mixture and watch it thicken.  Keep in mind you are going to also be adding cream, so you want it about as thick as a pudding, maybe slightly thinner.  You can always add stock to thin it out too.  Tonight I had to use about a cup of cornstarch and it was perfect.

Cut the pastry into four squares.  I cut one of the squares to fit August's baby pot pie.

Add the cream slowly and stir.  I say add about a cup and taste the sauce.  Add more if you want a creamier flavor.  You actually don't even need cream, but we like it.  Of course the more cream you add, the richer it becomes and the more calories it has.  We add about a cup, which is just enough to give it some richness, but not enough to make it too heavy.  Taste the sauce again and adjust the seasonings, especially the salt.  This is what your filling will taste like, so it needs to be perfect--you don't want the filling to be bland since it will have a pastry covering it and will be difficult to season.        

Can you guess which one is for the baby?

At this point, your puff pastry should be pliable and thawed.  I only thaw one sheet for our family and even then I have some left to refreeze.  Each box comes with two sheets.  Don't try to unfold them until they are thawed since they are folded in thirds and you will be cutting this into four squares.  Set the thawed pastry aside and don't handle it until you absolutely need to.

You will need some oven-safe crocks or bowls for this.  Most cereal or soup bowls will work, but just make sure before you make this recipe you have something that you can put in the oven.  Place the bowls on a cookie sheet and fill each one with a few ladles of the hot filling.  Gently take a square of the pastry and stretch it slightly so it will cover the bowl in one pass.  Try not to stretch any holes in it because once there is a hole, it's difficult to patch and the pot pie needs a tight seal to get the big beautiful dome for a remarkable presentation. If you are using pie dough, biscuits, or dumplings, cover the pot pies similarly.  For the pie dough, roll out enough to cover and then reroll the dough for each one.  For the biscuits, drop a rounded heap on top of the pot pie.  For the dumplings, drop a few dumplings on top of the bowl.

Once the bowls have been covered, brush the pastry with the lightly beaten egg.  This step isn't necessary, but it will give the pot pie a nice shine and help the cheese stick to it.  Top each pie with a few tablespoons of shredded cheddar cheese and a teaspoon or so of sliced almonds.  Now you are ready to bake.  Pop them in the oven for about 15-20 minutes, depending on your oven.  Check them at about 12-13 minutes.  What you are looking for is a raised, golden brown crust.  The cheese should be melted and the almonds should be toasted.  I like to serve them on a side plate with a folded napking underneath to keep the bowl from sliding on the plate.

To freeze, ladle the number of ladles you needed for one dinner--for my family, we used ten ladles to fill all the bowls.  This amount fit well into a quart-sized freezer bag.  I cleaned it off, marked it with a sharpie including the date and what it was and froze it flat so I can stack it in the freezer with things like marinara sauce and beef stew.  When you want it for dinner, thaw it in the fridge a day or two before, heat it in a saucepan or microwave and ladle it in to bowls.  Add your topping and bake.  Dinner couldn't be easier or more of a treat.  

The man who carries the coats

This photo was taken the night I was baptized, a few years after I angrily blamed God for taking our son and then making us spend the next few years having to deal with infertility.

When I was in my 20s, long before I was even thinking of marriage or children, I had a laproscopic surgery.  My gynecologist suspected I might have endometriosis, which is a disorder of the female reproductive system in which endometrial tissue (the normal lining of the uterus) is found outside the uterine cavity. About 40 percent of women who suffer from this will experience some degree of infertility.  I couldn't even imagine then what this alternate reality might be like if I had this disease.

My boyfriend at the time dropped me off at the hospital and said he'd pick me up after I'd come to.  My parents were livid and drove from their home in Memphis to Knoxville where I went to college to sit with me during the surgery.  I was terrified of both the procedure and the potential outcome.  After the surgery, my doctor gave me a clean bill of health stating she found no evidence of it and said I should have no problems getting pregnant later in life. Little did anyone know I would eventually get endometriosis and have the MTHFR gene mutation, collectively causing two ectopic pregnancies and one second-trimester miscarriage, subjecting me to two more surgeries, and leaving me with 11 rounds of drug-induced fertility treatments.  But she wasn't entirely wrong.

A few years later, I married that man who dropped me off at the hospital and we decided to try for children right away.  After two years of not getting pregnant, I suspected his chronic pot smoking had something to do with the problem since it's widely known that marijuana can have devastating effects on sperm counts.  I was sure I wasn't the problem.  I urged him to see a doctor but he refused.  He simply didn't want to know and preferred to leave it up to fate.  I was only 28 then, and I suspect either my better judgment kicked in or my biological clock wasn't ticking nearly as loud, hard, or fast as it is now because I didn't press the issue.  I suppose it was all for the best since we ended up divorcing anyway. 

Duane and I enjoying hurricanes on our first week living together after meeting in Iraq and being separated for more than two years.

After we divorced, the thought of children didn't cross my mind again.  Until I met Duane when I deployed to Iraq in 2006.  I knew he was the one and the time was right.  He had just left a wife who, sometime after marrying him, decided she no longer wanted children.  From the beginning, we both knew having children would be our first priority.  In fact, we began trying to get pregnant before we were even engaged.  I had just turned 33 and had been on birth control for the better part of 20 years, so we thought it would be a good idea for me to just stop taking the pills.  Four months later, and without any planning or thought given to it, I was pregnant.  My college doctor was right.  We were beside ourselves with joy.  We realized then we had better get planning and off to the justice of the peace we went.

Duane and I were happily married by a justice of the peace April 20, 2009.  I was two months pregnant here.

Anyone who has been following our story knows we lost that pregnancy at 17 weeks.  I won't talk about how profoundly painful or life changing that was.  The day his life ended was the day our new lives in this world began.  It never occurred to us it was even possible to lose the pregnancy.  It never occurred to us that we would then spend the next few years just trying to get pregnant and make it through all 40 weeks of pregnancy.  It never occurred to us that creating and sustaining a life could be so painful and suck all the joy from us when it was supposed to be such a beautiful thing.  It never occurred to us this alternate reality existed.

Duane and I gave birth to Connor Seamus King after 17 weeks of pregnancy on June 6, 2009.  Chaplain Thompson came to the hospital and blessed him before he was cremated and ultimately buried in Nantucket, Mass.  This was the saddest day of our lives.  Our nurse took these photos, despite my insisting she didn't.  I'm grateful today she did.

The day August was born was the happiest day of our lives.

Since we both left unfruitful relationships we assumed the blessings of a family were right around the corner and we began the anxious wait to hear the pitter patter of tiny little feet.  From the time we stopped trying to prevent a pregnancy until the time we actually held our little August in our arms, it was almost three years.  To get her, it took six rounds of the fertility drug Clomid, one second trimester pregnancy loss, an ectopic pregnancy, and one round of injectable medications coupled with an intrauterine insemination.  Her birthday was the most glorious day in both of our lives.

Connor's grave in Nantucket

Six months after she was born, we began trying for a second child since we knew it might be a long road.  Five rounds of injectable medications spanning eight months left us with only an excruciatingly painful ectopic pregnancy that ended in another loss, bringing our total to three pregnancy losses.  But we weren't ready to give up yet.  We picked ourselves up and began down the road of IVF or In-Vitro Fertilization.  No woman gets through this kind of grueling course of action with a partner who drops her off at the doctor and picks her up when it's over.  Someone has to be there to hold the coats.  And talk to the doctors.  And wipe away her tears.  And tell her everything is going to be OK.  That someone has always been Duane.

This is one month of fertility drugs for one of our six IUI cycles. Some days I endure three injections.

Following the ectopic pregnancy, there were a lot of things we had to accomplish and lab work was one of them.  Thrombosis, HIV, pregnancy, whatever.  Take all the blood you need.  I'll make more.  The day before we visited the lab together as we began our IVF protocol, I cried as I told Duane I was so afraid I felt sick--I haven't been stuck since the ectopic pregnancy in October.  It doesn't matter how many times we've been through this, I feel the same way every time.  I know he feels the same way, but as a man watching his wife go through this pain, I imagine it's just different, but I don't think about him--I just have to focus on getting through whatever procedure is afoot.

Often Overlooked, Always Present: Fertility Treatments From Husband's Perspective

I had a conversation last night with Tanya about possibly being a guest blogger or in some way, other than by just being her husband I could contribute to her blogging.  I promised her that I would not rant about politics, guns or anything that is overtly offensive (not that anyone has ever told me that I can abrasive or anything). Well, here goes nothing.

A friend suggested for my first posting that I share about infertility from the father/husband/male prospective as this is overlooked more often than not. My ex-wife and I divorced primarily because she changed her mind about having a family sometime after we got married. Tanya has poor egg quality and diminished ovarian reserves coupled with a host of other reproductive issues that we have tackled along the way. I say these things not to assign blame, or hurt anyone’s feelings, but rather to help you better understand much of my frustrations later in the post.

I was as naïve as most people are about infertility when we started this journey and would have preferred to stay that way. I can honestly say that I know more about the female reproductive system than many women, including Tanya. I am the one who doses and administers each injection, deals with her crazy when the hormones go completely nuts, accompanies her to nearly every appointment she has ever had, holds her hand in pre/post op and during many of her procedures, worries while she is in surgery, is briefed by the doctors on the successes and failures after surgeries, shoulders the household responsibilities while she recovers, supports her during the processes and consoles her when we are unsuccessful yet again. This is to say nothing of the financial burden this has put on our family and our relationship.

When I talk about fertility treatments, people usually assume that I am the one with the issues. They jokingly say extremely insensitive things like “you want me to come over and take care of your wife for you?” or “hey, my swimmers never miss.” This is like telling Tanya to “just relax and it will happen.” Most people, thankfully, have no idea how difficult it actually is to create and sustain a life. The best part is when the doctors tell you that even though you have paid all of this money, taken all of these drugs and spent all of this time, there are still no guarantees. Wait, what? We do all of this for a maybe? That is exactly correct, we do this for a maybe, because having a house full of children is that important to us. 

I, like most people, have periods of time that I feel sorry for myself. I sometimes think that this is such a cruel joke. I had one wife who didn’t want to have children and now I have one who can’t. What are the odds? Why do I always need to be the strong one? Why don’t people ask how I’m holding up? Do people think that Tanya is the only one that is devastated when each cycle fails? Then I pull my big boy pants up and start again.

As men we are programmed and conditioned to be the fixer, doer and the one who takes action. When that ability is taken away from us it is not only painful but demoralizing and emasculating as well. I have spent untold hours watching Tanya in pain and in some instances am the one directly responsible for inflicting it. I try to make jokes like, “this is the only time in my life that I can stab my wife and get away with it,” but the truth is that it hurts me deeply to have to give Tanya injections nightly, knowing that I am the one causing the pain. Although extremely adorable, it hurts my heart that when August sees me getting ready to give Tanya a shot she pulls up her shirt to expose her tummy too.

Now for the good stuff that everyone wants to know about. SEX! Imagine, if you will, spending three years of hot, steamy, intimate relations with your partner. Each one dictated, literally, by exact time and doctors prescription. No spontaneity, no fun, and certainly no “hey, lets get drunk and make a kid.” Or the “you need to abstain from any form of sexual contact for a minimum of 5 days” and then there’s the “here’s your cup.” Needless to say sex and intimacy have been extremely difficult to keep, well, passionate about.  

This process has been frustrating, crippling, heartbreaking, but also extremely rewarding. I am so grateful every time I hold, see, kiss and think about August. She has been what has kept me going through this. The knowledge of how awesome it is to be a father and look into the eyes that you helped to create. To watch this thing grow into a little person and be directly responsible for the outcome.

I can understand how dealing with infertility issues has caused lesser mortals to give up not only on the treatments but their marriages as well. This has been no easy road we have ventured down, but I think the voyage has strengthened our relationship and brought us closer together. How is that possible you may ask? I have no idea, maybe it's because we are thick headed and hate to admit defeat. Maybe it's because we have seen each other at our most vulnerable and rawest points. Whatever the reason is, I’m grateful to have my best friend be my wife and mother to our daughter.

Stroller Envy



Duane gives me my nightly injection of fertility drugs



I have to preface this post with the fact that I began this yesterday in a lighthearted attempt to talk about how my life has shifted from deciding which beers are on tap to whether I can afford the $1,000 stroller at Babies R Us to keep up with the moms toting tots at all the places I take August on the weekends.  I had to stop.  Something wouldn't let me keep it lighthearted, but I'm used to that, so I let it sit for a day.  Something silly hit me mid-post, much like it does in my real life: I can't just get pregnant and I've lost three babies to miscarriage.  Some people who haven't lived this life I lead might wonder why I can't just get over it or if I will ever move beyond this, and the short answer is, I don't think so.  And as much as I want to move on, life happens and I am reminded of who I am, where I came from, and how far I've come.

Beautiful August Cameron

I never wanted to be the poster child for infertility or miscarriage.  I never wanted to be the person holding an acquaintance's hand, letting her cry to someone, anyone, after she just lost her baby (they call me sometimes because they can't bear to hear what well-intentioned friends and family say to them such as it was God's will).  I never wanted to have to explain to my own family day after day what to say and what not to say to help me heal, knowing Duane and I will likely always have this tender scar that will never heal and it can burst open on certain days or in certain moments (June 6th, November 14th, Christmas time).  I never wanted to be the woman who has to constantly answer the questions, "So do you want to have kids," or "Is she your first," or "Do you want more," with answers like, "We are working on it," or "Someday," or "Yes, she is our first," (feeling like our son Connor is looking down on us from heaven saying what about me?  I didn't choose this life, but it's the life I've got and I can't be bitter about it, lest it eat me alive and I forgo all the beauty surrounding me).

My written observations about being a mom began here yesterday:

Duane and I taking August for a walk in the jogging stroller on the Green River Trail behind our apartments

Every time I go to the zoo, I get stroller envy.  Parents with toddlers know what I am talking about.  Stroller envy makes you seriously rethink your priorities so you can buy that $1,000 stroller you registered for during your baby shower but no rich benefactor bought.  I always dread this about going to the zoo since our strollers (yes, we have a few), though adequate, would never propel us among the stroller elite circle.  In fact, I keep two strollers in my trunk at all times, which pisses off Duane because it keeps me from being able to go to Sam's Club to buy large things like diapers and toilet paper since I have no room; I have two strollers in my trunk for crying out loud!  We also have a wagon, a jogging stroller, and a hiking backpack, all of which are perfectly suited for certain occasions.  I no longer buy cocktail dresses, shoes, or makeup anymore, by the way, because my efforts are focused on Smoosh.

August looking at the gorilla from her adequate stroller

I didn't know about "mom culture" until I started taking my precious cargo to places like the zoo, the aquarium, the Children's Museum on the weekend.  And I don't think anyone is competing to be the best mom, but c'mon, we kind of all are.  Rest assured, my baby will be in the cutest outfit on the planet, lest anyone try to upstage AugDog.  My goal is to collect as many comments like, "Oh my gosh, she is just the most adorable baby I've ever seen," or "Wow, her cheeks are just so...."  Yeah, I know, she's my daughter.  And I try not to judge, but I do when I think no one is looking in how we handle our children's behavior or what they eat.  In my head, I am always telling myself, "my kid is far superior to yours."  And I don't mean anything by it.  I am super cordial around other parents.  Until they are more concerned with their iPhone than they are with the snot running down their kid's nose and how they let their kid shove my kid and totally didn't correct the behavior.  Let me just tell you.

August playing in the water at the Children's Museum

And then I deteriorated.  I got in my head.  I began to process the day, not by how lucky I am or how much fun we were having, but by the observation that every. single. woman. was nine freaking months pregnant.  No joke.  It was like a shampoo commercial of long-haired perfect women waving with streaks of sun showing through their glee flying by my face with a perfect smile and infectious laugh.  The pregnant women were everywhere in many colors and sizes, representing diversity and life itself--be fruitful and multiply said God.  They represented every woman but me and I felt my thoughts turn bitter, angry and confused again.  This feeling isn't new.  I battle it often and my demons are mostly other peoples':  Why can't she get over it?  Isn't she grateful for August?  She just needs to relax.  Why can't they just adopt?

Here's what went on in my mind:

I always feel inferior when I see bulging pregnant women in these places, despite the fact that my kid is one breakfast away from winning the Nobel Prize for whatever.  It feels like God is mocking me.  Not many people were at the zoo today since it was cold and raining.  Despite the dismal weather, it seemed like every woman in Seattle who was more than six months pregnant decided to go to the zoo.  And they weren't just pregnant.  They were glowing with rays of golden light illuminating them as they rubbed their fertile bellies dressed in perfectly tailored L.L. Bean outfits that probably weren't even made for pregnant women.  Their kids laughed in slow motion and made eyes at the pregnant bellies and the moms acknowledged me as our kids intermingled.

Dad on a rare family day off work helping August paint

At one point, August made eye contact with one of the lucky pregnant women and she shyly walked up to her.  August stared at her belly since she's been obsessed with them lately and I could tell she was trying to find the courage to touch the pregnant belly.  The lucky mom laughed and made some casual comment about how August wanted the maraca she had and gave it to her.  August continued to stare and inched closer.   All I could think about is how August loves babies--she signs baby, says baby and walks up to babies and won't leave them alone.  August would really love having a baby here.  And I want to give her one.  But I can't and one day she is going to ask me why.

I resent these women and then feel guilty about it.  I don't know how to fix it.  I try to avert my eyes and then there is another bulging woman showing off her "I didn't eat any ice cream or cupcakes or french fries" body in the pants she wore in high school with nothing more than a hair tie attached to her button fly and she wouldn't even need the hair tie if her hair hadn't become so long and luscious due to the prenatal vitamins and the pregnancy hormones.  Oh and bluebirds will fly out of her vagina when she gives birth, by the way.

August's first time working with clay

Today we went to the Children's Museum and things were a little better, even though every woman I encountered either had a narcoleptic newborn in some fashionable front carrier on her chest or was also bulging with a future tax credit in her biological oven.  It was easier today.  I don't know why.  I never know why.  And I never know when it is going to hit me either.

I know this makes me seem like a raging lunatic who is unapproachable or overly emotional.  But I'm not.  I'm just a mom who has lost three babies and has a really hard time bringing life to the ones I know God wants me to have.  I struggle daily, but I struggle because I know the reward is greater than my fight.  What I want people who want to support me to know is that the best way to support me is to just listen.  Call me and ask questions.  But ask questions about my struggle.  Ask questions about my son.  Ask questions about how I am feeling and when I answer honestly, just listen.

If you know someone who is experiencing infertility and just don't know what to do or say, please click here.  My guess is that you aren't alone.  None of us who experience infertility want you to have to be a part of this, but the honest truth is, we are glad you are because we can't do this alone.  We might try to do this alone, but we need you.

Thousand Mile Journey

I've been thinking about how to get started blogging again since my computer was the issue.  Duane got me a new computer for Christmas so I wouldn't have an excuse.  I guess I have to start somewhere.  So much time has passed; there's so much I want to tell you.  I can't cover it all in one blog and every time I get started, I stop because I think it's getting too long.  My solution is to just not worry about it.  I figure if I just start here and write, I will get better.  Eventually, I will be where I want to be with this blog.  I suppose life is like that.

Duane tilling the garden at the Pea Patch last spring on his only day off.  It took four hours and left blisters on his hands. 

I heard on the radio today a follow up on New Year's Resolutions.  I thought about my own--to plan out the garden, to get through next winter entirely on our own produce with things we've canned, frozen, and dried.  I plan to be more organized and not have piles of things with numbers that will eventually equal a stolen identity leaving me paranoid to just throw anything in the trash.  I'm also becoming a bit of a hoarder when it comes to bits of paper August has scribbled on.  I vowed also to come up with some sort of system to save money, pay bills systematically, and to bake bread daily.  We plan to be debt free so we can buy a house in the fall.  All of this goes without saying that I have also vowed to not eat too much, drink too much, exercise more, and call my family every Sunday.  Have I gotten to how bad I am at making sure Christmas cards and thank you notes are sent out on time?  What, am I crazy?  I thought so too.

This is one month's supply of drugs for an IUI cycle.  After five rounds of this, we are now on to IVF and our drugs are five times this.

 By the way, did I mention we have been trying to have another baby since August was six months old?  Most people just get drunk and squander away their savings on impulse purchases when they are trying to (not) have a baby and wind up pregnant.  Not us.

I'm not sure, but some nights it feels more like revenge and less like love and the beauty a couple shares when trying to have a baby.  Duane takes a little too much joy in the process.

It's almost February and I don't even think I stood a chance past the first week in January with goals like that.  Yet, when I look back on the past few weeks, I'm actually proud of what I have accomplished.  When I think about it in these terms, I realize it isn't even February and I've already experimented with a few different kinds of breads, frozen a bunch of sugar pie pumpkin puree from the farm for pies, breads and dishes later in the year.  I've taken inventory of the freezer and created a spreadsheet for the garden and begun to plan.  I've ordered seeds and enlisted help from nearby friends who are willing to help plant and weed in exchange for some produce.  I've started a calendar for meals and begun inputting recipes I've gathered from my favorite cookbooks I hope to make in the future.  I even attacked laundry mountain once this year, which is *almost* more than I can say for last year.  And our IVF cycle is scheduled for February!

In just a few days, with no air conditioning when it was 90 degrees outside, we canned 110 pounds of tomatoes in two days.  Four weeks later, we canned another 125 pounds.

When I look back at last year, I try not to be too hard on myself.  I try to look at what we've accomplished rather than get down on myself for what we didn't.  Of course Duane has his own set of things he wants to accomplish, but collectively, we've moved mountains even though some days it feels like the mountain is on top of us.  We paid off almost $10,000 in debt by cutting out things we thought we needed but don't, like cable and Starbucks.  We learned how to grow a garden and canned hundreds of pounds of vegetables.  We learned about organics and changed everything about the way we eat.  We learned sign language to be able to communicate with our daughter.  And oh yeah, there's that--we raised her into a toddler too, which is no small feat.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes when you just don't know where to start and everything feels overwhelming, start at the beginning .  The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step (that's a Chinese proverb).  And if you just keep placing one foot in front of the other, you might not get to the end today or tomorrow, but you will be farther along on your journey than you were when you began.  Keep looking back and you will see how far you've come and one day, you just won't need to look back again.

August is signing "more, more" with Daddy.  At just 17 months, she has about 300 signs and understands concepts like seasons, colors, temperature, feelings, days of the week, foods and family relationships.  She also knows about 50-75 animals and can differentiate between a variety of categories such as different types of birds, monkeys, fish and other sea creatures, and mammals.  She isn't deaf, so we didn't need to teach her sing and at first, it felt overwhelming since she didn't sign back for a few months.  But now it's like we opened a portal to be able to communicate with a little girl who has so much to say, but didn't have the ability to communicate the words in her brain to do so.