Sometimes my dreams go splat

My friend's pregnancy announcement has really thrown me for a loop (this being the friend with a 1-year-old and a new bump). Partially it's because we were pregnant at the same time. Partially it's because she also has medical issues, and yet everything seems to be pointing in the direction of a take-home baby in 5 months. But mostly just because she's living my dream.

Sure, she got there by a few wild nights at home with her husband. But that's not going to work for me. So if this is what I really want, I need to do something about it. Find a new clinic. Sign up for a domestic adoption info session (obviously we need to talk a lot more about adoption but getting educated is just the beginning and pursuing a dual track (cycling and researching adoption) is obviously the most productive thing to do). Hence the sudden interest in picking a local IF clinic (and any recommendations still much appreciated). The newly-renewed enthusiasm for exercise if not dieting (hence my new toy). And if I were a single (and fabulously wealthy) gal I'd be on the phone making appointments and scheduling my next cycle.

And then sometimes my fantasies go splat. Because JD isn't quite in the same place, to put it mildly. Yes, of course he wants more children. He knows I want a large family and he is ok with that (and I did think about the word choice here. He is "ok" with 4-5 children. Not gung-ho, not super-enthusiastic but willing to trust in my capabilities and to share my vision). But he's living the bachelor life. He has not had to think about finding a babysitter in almost 3 months. When his friend suggests a drink in the elevator on the way out of work, he can go without a second thought. And he does not have to worry about being woken up at 2 am because someone wants to eat. Or 7 am to play. When he felt sick one day, he stayed in bed and ordered delivery for 24 hours. He was proud that he finally found the time to disassemble the fusspot's crib and move it to her bedroom (we're still going to cosleep but it would be lovely if she'd take her morning nap in her own room so I could work at my desk which is in our bedroom). He's proud of a half hour construction job, while I spend at least a half hour ever day vacuuming and mopping to clean up after our food-flinging fusspot. And of course, we have not had much time together. So there's just no way he's going to agree to a cycle the moment I return to the U.S. Maybe after a month or two, but maybe he's right to ask for 3 months together without needles and 7 am appointments and all the related stress.

So while I know what I want, and I know that the only way to get it is to head back to the clinic, seems like real life is going to get in the way for a while. Not real life like work or finances (although those are always a concern, just not the type of concern a few months delay will alter). Real life like paying attention to the needs of my husband. And I need to come to terms with that before I head home for new years. I don't want to spend new years quibbling about start dates for cycles when it really isn't all that relevant yet. I want him to know what I'm thinking, and I want him to assure me that he'll figure out the budget for it, and then I want to spend my trip home showing off my beautiful baby and enjoying the miracle we already have. Not that I've ever had that type of grace in my life, but there's nothing wrong with wishful thinking.

--------------------------
In a completely unrelated thought, if the fusspot fails her kindergarten entrance interview, we'll know why. You know the one where they want to check first and foremost that your child isn't a biter, and then they ask them a few simple questions like what sound does a cow make.

Here's to a little local linguistic diversity. Of the animal sort. Thanks to a new farm animals book and a local version of Peek-a-boo.

Pigs around here don't oink or snort, they stick with the far more sophisticated: knor! (sorry about my technical fail - I can't get it to rotate).

Sheep and lambs are both into accent marks, and of the dismissive type at that:


Cows seem to be practicing for halloween:
Chickens say tok tok. And alligators ... well, read for yourself:

Super pissed

I just wrote my husband an e-mail reminding him to look at our credit reports and see what these collection agencies are doing to our credit.

Oh? Hadn't mentioned our financial woes?

That's because we don't have any. Our only debt is student debt which we are rapidly repaying, we are actively saving for future fertility treatments, and we keep six months living expenses in an accessible bank account (aka our future house fund. And yes, I realize we are incredibly lucky to be doing so well given the economy and our student debts. We try to live frugally, and it is easy to prioritize when the prize at the end of the tunnel is a chance to grow our family). Back on topic.

So why the collection agencies? Hospital billing gone awry.

Six months after the fusspot's birth we got the first collection agency call. Two hours on the phone had at least made clear what was going on: the hospital misbilled one of my bio-physical profiles, forgot I had insurance, and just for kicks botched the address on the bill (but only that bill because I received the co-payment bills from the 8 or so other BPPs and paid them immediately). That's right, when I called they had 2 different addresses on my account - one of which was totally bogus. But also a working phone number and e-mail and of course the collection agency got our address right on their first try. And yet ... the hospital won't put in writing that they misbilled us, the insurance agency will never put anything in writing, and the collection agency couldn't care less if the bill was written in error. This is one of my greatest frustrations with American insurance: the refusal to put anything in writing. You hear over and over again "this is not a guarantee of future payments" and "we cannot evaluate your coverage until we have the bill in hand." Obviously there are plenty of procedures which I might have delayed/skipped (including weekly biophysical profiles given my risk factors) if I knew they weren't covered, but that information is just not available to the consumer.

Needless to say, it's easily worth paying an extra $200-300 just to get rid of the damage to our credit, even if the insurance agency (Aetna for that matter - largest insurer in the U.S.) admits on the phone that they ought to cover this bill entirely when it is coded correctly (and the fact that they can see that I had this procedure weekly in the third trimester and the rest of them were covered makes it pretty apparent).

But this week JD got a call from a new collection agency. Bill from the hospital were I delivered. 8.5 months after the delivery. The collection agency doesn't know what the bill is about, the hospital has no outstanding charges at all, the usual.

And just to remind us how fragile our "right" to insurance is: we will pay $2600 to insure the fusspot this year. Just the fusspot. Even though that insurance will not cover any appointments, surgeries, etc. here in Europe. We're paying that amount in case something catastrophic happens where the fusspot would require surgery or hospitalization and we'd also conveniently have the time/ability to fly back to the U.S. That's a lot of money for that type of warm, fuzzy, secure feeling that if my daughter gets cancer we'll be able to afford treatment.

And of course so that she has continuous coverage so that if she breaks her leg in five years it will be covered. And yes, I do know a little bit about "being dropped" by insurance. In the midst of my sister's medical problems her insurance company tried to illegally drop her. So between doctors appointments she had to find a lawyer and file a lawsuit, at which point they immediately reinstated her since their action was clearly illegal (no apology though, and she never recouped the cost of the lawsuit). And that from a woman who has been continuously insured by top-notch insurers her entire life.

So I'm pissed at the awfulness of dealing with American insurance, and equally pissed at all of the (largely misinformed) people who seem to think we don't need healthcare reform. And for all those people who think the government is poorly run and "don't want the government messing in their medical care" (as if it isn't already, but anyway) do they not have any sympathy for the 50 million Americans who don't have an extra $2,600 lying around and might have to tell their children we just can't afford to treat your illness?

I have to think its misinformation because I honestly don't know people who are that heartless.

at last

Yesterday I boarded a 2:34 pm train on a rather important errand. After about 10 minutes the train stopped, everyone got off, waited an hour or so, were informed there was a fire on the tracks ... so I turned around and came home. 2.5 hours in transit and no closer to my goal.

Today at 2:34 pm I boarded a train and rode 35 minutes to the 2nd largest city in Lalaland. Took a tram, walked a bit and ... picked up my delightful surprise (friend of a friend moving ...). Transported myself back to the train (through early evening traffic I must add, in a city I really don't know particularly well), rushed to pick up the fusspot, lugged said delightful mode of transportation 8 blocks while carrying the fusspot in the Ergo in order to pick up second item (purchased off the local version of ebay).

Because while my new treat has one of these:










I am still a bit too nervous to use it (the last time I really rode a bike was my lovely first-trimester adventure, documented here and here - with lovely photos of my current locale). And I won't even consider it until I find a reliable infant helmet (any suggestions much appreciated) which may require ordering from the U.S., although I am planning to buy a local helmet tomorrow for the meantime.

So thanks to ebay I added this:


Folks, we have mobility!

It really is a wonder I have a blog ...

I always feel guilted into doing computer updates. For example, I just updated Firefox "for security reasons" even though it was working just fine. And suddenly the text/images/everything from the internets is much, much smaller and I can barely read anything on the page. Suggestions?

And if you're wondering how I have survived this long with this level of non-technological-ability, JD usually fixes things. I actually made him set up my blog for me and then promise not to read it. I am that type of incompetent occasionally. Also possibly why I think it's totally reasonable to leave the main lightbulb in the downstairs bathroom (I have two bathrooms!!!) burnt out until a friend comes to visit in just ... well ... 3 weeks or so ...

Realization

Sometimes I wonder if bring up IF so much when talking about the fusspot because I am still processing all of it. Being told that we really have no chance of conceiving on our own, getting so, so, so incredibly lucky on an awful cycle, the pregnancy, the easy delivery, the most-wonderful-baby-in-the-world.

And I realized yesterday it's ok if I'm still processing it all. Twelve months ago we were on our honeymoon. And now I'm living 3637 miles (that's 5853 km, 3160 nautical miles) away from my husband in a strange country. No wonder I don't have it all figured out yet. But thus far it has been a wonderful journey:


Caption: one year ago today.

Tidbits

I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed by work. Hoping to return to my usual whining/ranting soon. In the meantime, some bullet points:

- The fusspot's sleep is much improved. Sadly part of the solution is one I would have preferred to avoid for another few months. Turns out that she is a stomach sleeper. I have yet to succeed in getting her back into her crib as suggested, and at this point in my single-parenting adventure I will take any shortcut that increases my sleep time.

- The very same baby who gives my breasts the loudest karate yell and attacks them voraciously also happens to be a nature-lover when it comes to other foods. Tonight she gently patted her sweet potato for a good five minutes while I vocalized her precise sentiments, which went something like this "Dear sweet potato. You were a good sweet potato. I realize that you have left the comfort of the cool earth to provide entertainment for me between 6:00 and 6:05 pm while my mother scarfes down her dinner, and I appreciate your sacrifice. I recognize our respective roles in the universe and I respect your sacrifice. And now I will dig both my hands in and fling bits of sweet potato around the kitchen as part of your final rites."

- In other food news, are all these recommendations to give yourself/your constant companion "foods of every color" at a meal serious? Does it matter whether you chose a color for the day as long as you vary the food over a week? We seem to have a serious issue with single-color dinners. Last week we had variations on white: cauliflower, cheerios. Then variations on green: broccoli, grapes. Then variations on yellow: cheese, banana. Then variations on orange tonight: steamed carrots, sweet potato, orange hard cheese.

- The fusspot is entirely self-fed at this point (i.e. no purees, no spoons). But I had still been sticking to the simple, bland baby foods. On Sunday we went to a party and the host had made a delicious curry. It had sweet potatos in it, so I offered the fusspot one thinking she'd make a funny face given the curry on it (seriously, like you wouldn't do the same?). Instead she ate it enthusiastically plus about 10 more pieces and hummus with pepper in it and rice with coconut milk ... so apparently she will (almost certainly temporarily) be a foodie baby. Now if only I could get it together to start cooking again ...

- Best baby-feeding tip ever: put a plastic tablecloth under the high chair. As long as you treat it like table (no walking on it, wash it every night) you can return anything the baby drops without guilt. And I throw ours in the shower at least once a week.

- I went to see a friend's 11 day old baby today. And held the baby. I want a newborn. Oh yeah, and her oldest is not yet 2. 'Nuff said.

- I really need to stop being so judgemental. Having coffee with a professor, somehow ranting about the lack of institutional support for mothers at my university. Said something about how convenient it was that the fusspot was born before her due date. He perks up a bit and says something about how his daughter was a 27-weeker. I immediately try to correct any misperceptions, but it's clear he wants to talk about it. So I made some benign comment about how hard that must have been - trying to give him an opening to talk about it. And he's suddenly like "The NICU? Not a big deal at all." So I write him off as a silly old man who probably both had no idea how dangerous those places are and left the wringing of hands to his wife. It's not until a good 20 minutes later that I realize why he didn't think the NICU was a big deal. Turns out the early delivery was because his wife was sick. And she died before his daughter left the NICU. So yeah, I understand why it wasn't the worst thing for him. I really need to be more cautious about judging people.

- Speaking of non-judgemental, met a lovely woman with a special needs daughter. And it was just so refreshing how completely relaxed she was about it. The type of mother who says, yes my daughter had surgery and needs some special therapy and we truly have no idea what her capabilities will be in the future, but we're enjoying it now. More on this family and visit later.

- Also lovely. Over the weekend JD and I spent a good hour or so on skype while he ironed his shirts (background: we are enthusiastically quirky environmentalists. We are committeed to a large number of very random environmentally-friendly things like not owning a car and recycling, but we also do not restrict things like plane flights which I know are terrible for the environment. So we decided not to use the dry cleaner if at all possible which means that JD irons all of his own shirts. This is considered exceedingly odd in NYC and takes him a good hour every week. Luckily he is convinced that I cannot iron and so has never asked me to help ...). I fed the fusspot and sang her to sleep while JD ironed and ranted about the weather and politics and his friends. And it was almost like being home again. Because even with my crazy commute and his long work hours, we always spend at least an hour talking while he irons during the week. And it's one of those fabulous activities where you are really stuck for a long time so it's ok to let the conversation lapse and have silence for 20 minutes and then start talking again. It just made me think how nice it would be to live with my husband again.

Wowie

So I am a bit clueless and technologically challenged.

I just found out that there are international versions of Proje.ct Run.way (including some in English, and even a local one from my current place of residence called Project Catwalk). AND ... they're all on youtu.be.

That's a good several months worth of happy pumping for me.

Research questions

My mind is all over the place today, and sadly not at all focused on my work. I have a rather long rant brewing on my complete and utter inability to diet and why I'm thinking of just throwing up my hands and accepting it. But in the meantime I'm obsessing about whether I should be getting my hormones monitored and consider going back on metformin (oddly, this is the longest time period since I started college that no one has looked at my ovaries or checked my FSH/LH level ...)

So, the question of the day. Do any of my beloved NYC readers happen to know (or have heard rumors of) any clinic in the city which uses femara/letrozole for ovulation induction? Any hints of non-iui cycles?

And for my non-NYC readers, any suggestions on how to research these questions? I can't seem to get much of an answer over the phone. Do I start dashing off printed letters? Do I look like a total psycho writing clinics to ask about their standard operating procedures (and whether they'll bend them for us)? Given that initial consults tend to round around $500 and we have no insurance coverage at all (for treatment, I have been quite lucky in getting my diagnostics and some ultrasounds covered because my IF is rather unusual and will presumably land me with a long list of unpleasant medical problems when I'm an old lady ... here we go diabetes, high blood pressure, kidney failure, whee ...), I don't want to waste my time visiting a clinic that we might not land up using.

Edit: If you happen to have done treatments in NYC and wouldn't mind talking about your experience, please send me an e-mail. It is longdistanceinfertility at gmail.

And lastly, if you had to go with a protocol that you did not like - any thoughts?

ps - Anyone willing to place bets on whether I'm gunning for a May or August start date for our next cycle? JD may soon regret suggesting I hang out with quite so many bumps ...

New sleeping contortions

My long-time readers may recall that the fusspot likes to sleep in a shape we can only call "I dream of boobies falling from the sky." Back arched, arms stretched in front of her as if to encompass an imaginary mammary. Mouth wide open of course.

One of the things I miss about having JD around is our ability to put into words exactly what the fusspot is expressing. Yesterday night she fell asleep flat on her back, right hand firmly and possessively planted on my chest, left arm outstretched and waving about and with a look on her face which could only mean: "Dearest mother, if you would just invite one of your dear lady friends with voluptuous curves to join us for a sleepover and suggest she wear her very-cutest low-cute negligee than I would not be left with one arm flailing about in the dark but I could instead find an appropriate resting place for it."

Yesterday when an elderly woman came over to say hi to the fusspot in her stroller and put out her hand to tickle the baby, my sneaky child lunged deliberately straight at her chest. At least she knows what she likes.

ps - and yes, I'm trying to get a video of the new karate sounds which precede many of our meals.

Reconsidering my love affair with Bu.mg.enius

My love affair with my cloth diapers has been well-documented here, from my appreciation of the aesthetic to the environmental benefits to my fights with my MIL over diaper cream ... but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew this love affair had to come to an end.

My least favorite child-minding related task is cutting nails. My least favorite child-developmental phase ever is the day/week/months when a toddler is old enough to take their diaper off and yet still young enough to think it is interesting to examine the contents. I'm not sure if I've mentioned that I lived as a nanny with a family with 2-year-old twins exactly. during. that. phase. Truly, I don't mind diapers. I don't mind bodily fluids. But there is something about the horror of turning to find a child has opened their own diaper and smeared the contents somewhere that just gets to me.

The BumGe.nius diapers have velcro in the front where the tape would be on a disposable. The velcro gets a bit worn over time and we have no dryer to "resticky" (the technical term, I believe) it. The fusspot has accidentally opened one side several times already. Today she unvelcroed one side of her diaper while I was choosing an outfit for her. I redid it, and turned back to the closet. When I turned around she had a totally gleeful look and had deliberately opened her diaper. And honestly, there is just so little "discipline" you can provide for an 8 month old. I said "No" slowly and clearly and she flashed me her whining grin.

Luckily, I think we have an alternative. I purchashed a stash of snap wonder.oos last week. They are British but very similar to "green a.cre" diapers in the U.S. So we'll see. They were super-cheap but have been used for 4 children already. I'm guessing I need to replace the liners or find something else to stuff them with. I really can't believe that we are at this phase already.

In other far more entertaining news, the fusspot has added a new piece to her public breastfeeding repetoire (for new readers, we are not the model of decorum - I have entirely given up on cover-ups and we feed in public all the time, in a country where people seem to rarely do so in non-baby areas). In addition to her usual enthusiastic panting before starting a meal, the fusspot has added a delightfully loud karate-style yell to punctuate her excitement. Needless to say it gets everyone's attention.

Toilets and unexpected challenges

After much reading, I started toilet training (I suppose the correct term is elimination training) the fusspot this week. I have no great aspirations to have an undiapered baby (seriously I have trouble holding it until we can find a toilet in this country) for at least the next year, but I do think there are big benefits to getting a baby used to sitting on a toilet. I can already see the fusspot becoming more willful and expressing clear desires at 8 months and I think it makes sense to start her on the toilet when it can still be a part of her normal routine and not something for her to protest. Also, I expect we will toilet train the fusspot rather early since my in-laws come from a culture where almost all babies were toilet trained by a year and our nanny for next year seemed to take that for granted. Unfortunately I underestimated the greatest obstacle thus far ... the fusspot likes to chew on everything. And while it was fairly hysterical to watch her contort her body so that she could chew on the front and back of the plastic (Ikea - need to upgrade to something nicer) infant toilet, it's hardly a habit I want to encourage. She fell off the seat twice today while trying to get it into her mouth - although she did also succesfully pee in it (and the fact that that did not discourage her in the least ....)

In other news, our bedroom currently looks like the lair of a large group of hotheaded radicals. The fusspot almost rolled out of bed yesterday and now we are securely sleeping in a queen-sized bed surrounded by a barricade of overturned tables (big, heavy wood - I really don't think she could budge them - they were a serious challenge for me to move) and using her (very light Ikea) crib as a rather inconvenient gateway into the "sleeping area" of our little fort. Suggestions please? The bed is queen-sized and anchored to the floor so I can't move it. There is not enough room for the mattresses on the floor and that also would be a problem for our other major problem ... wall-length radiators. I have absolutely no idea how to babyproof them since they can conveniently be found in every. single. room. We are talking about 30-40 feet of radiators in total.

And I'm not sure if I have yet mentioned the greatest hazard of my incredible apartment in Lalaland: peeling (probably lead) paint. WAIT. Do not suggest I move. Seriously. This is a country without housing discrimination laws and I was lucky to find a landlord who would take a baby and single mama. And for the price of a studio we are also living in a huge apartment. I am considering paying painters next month when we're gone for 2 weeks (but I really don't want to have painters in while we're living here - paint fumes are awful for babies), but in the meantime I have been dusting and vacuuming obsessively and the fusspot is thus far confined to 3 blankets which are shaken out nightly. I'm also going to have her lead levels checked in September (required by NYC law anyway at some point in the first 12 months). Any other ideas? I don't know how hard it is to run tests and see if it really is lead paint. The worst of it is in the hall and she is never allowed in the hall except when I am strapping her into her stroller, but there is also some on the bathroom door, above the kitchen sink (argh!) and in the upstairs hallway.

Back to travel posts tomorrow.

thanks

You guys are awesome.

Reading your comments helped so much, and I was in such an improved mood when I picked my constant companion up from daycare that I was quite friendly towards my new friend and her belly (40 weeks and counting ...). And when she suggested coffee later in the week I was actually rather pleased. I certainly do attract the bumps ...

And now back to a long-neglected post in which I asked my dear readers for any spontaneous questions, and Jenn asked me about keeping myself sane (answer: not always) and my "break time." I thought the answer to that was quite obviously: I blog, read other blogs and I also am an avid reader of celebrity news online and when I splurge the British tabloids in print. Of course, I almost always have to pump while playing online, but I still find it relaxing.

Overestimating myself

I somehow thought that I might have escaped those awful feelings of jealousy about pregnant women that other people write about so often. While I will admit to cringing when surrounded by a room full of bumps (which seems to happen rather often to me), even while cycling I was happy to babysit my friends' babies (I even found proof here in a post from March 10th 2008). And while I certainly remember the sting of opening my apartment door to find little toddler shoes casually tossed into my entryway, I don't remember it really getting to me.

Not today. I just read a bump announcement online from a friend. A friend whose babies will be less than a year apart. A friend who was actually one of three pregnant women at my wedding (me included) and the first to ask surreptiously at our auf ruf when we were thinking about starting a family (in retrospect I'm guessing she had her suspicions already). And my only friend IRL (of my generation, I must add) who was also dealing with fertility issues (repeat miscarriages). I really am genuinely happy for people in the internets who get pregnant. In part because I know what they've been through, and in very small part because I won't be seeing those babies at every party and wedding and my other friends won't start asking when we're going to "think" about #2 (if all it took was thinking we'd have a very full house by now ...). And despite a number of factors (including still breastfeeding), she just posted her wonderful news.

And I almost cried. So I guess I overstimated myself again.

And then I thought about it some, and the honest truth is that finding out I was pregnant today would be a bit unfortunate (don't worry, my husband doesn't even live on the same continent - you will find no surprise announcements here. And that is also not to suggest that we were not 'actively trying' before - as much as an anovolutary woman can). I would of course love to be pregnant again in 6 months, but living here with just my wee constant companion, while stressing about work, and theoretically battling a rather bureacratic health care system would be unfortunate. So what's my problem? I think it's just the perpetual fear that lightning will not strike twice, that I will never again be pregnant or that I will never again succesfully carry a baby, that we will never again be given such a healthy, easy infant. Kate posted yesterday asking about how and when her readers started treatments and I've been thinking about how to answer. Because honestly, starting IF treatments while we were both underemployed, living apart, soon to be married, and knowing that I would have to go abroad again was not entirely the most logical thing we could have done. And I think the short answer is just that the stress of not knowing propelled me to stomp my foot, grab JD's credit card, and dash off to the closest local fertility clinic. If I had a magic ball and could look into the future and know that we would someday be able to grow our family and it would all work out in the end then I think I would be quite thrilled to have this year to play and snuggle with my adorable constant companion, to nurse without worrying about weaning, and to concentrate on my work, but the fear hanging over me can sometimes be stifling. And even though age was not a factor in our infertility, every single doctor reminded us not to let age become a factor given all the other issues. So here I sit, jealous of a woman with 5 pregnancies and only one surviving daughter. Feeling both sad and disappointed in myself.

Strip clubs and fantasies

Not mine, obviously.

We stayed in a quite nice hotel near the train station over the weekend. Clean and quiet (and all-organic breakfast included) although not particularly baby-friendly ($25 charge for a crib -we skipped it). I had forgotten that this particular city has a quite active sex industry which is also located near the train station. To be precise, there was a strip club on either side of the hotel. And being Europe and all (I'll let you guess my exact location tomorrow once I download photos) strip clubs are allowed to post full-sized photos as advertising in their windows. No pasties necessary.

Well you can imagine who was particularly interested in these photos. It was hysterical to watch my constant companion crane her head to look at those posters. You could almost see her salivate. It was as if all of her vague fantasies of a better life had been writ large in sequins and strobe lights. Rooms full of scantily clad women. Boobies reclining on soft couches! Boobies in bathtubs! Boobies exercising on a pole! Boobies everywhere!

And by the end of the weekend I could almost feel her giving me a reproachful look every time we walked back to the hotel as if to say "All of my dreams could come true behind those doors. I know exactly what is happening in there, and I want in."

Blah

Stressed.
Tired (although not so much the fault of my constant companion this time - her sleep is slightly improved).
Feeling like I really need to get more work done.
Wondering if all of my social skills have evaporated since my husband left.
Wishing for a vacation, but wondering if my planned weekend getaway (heading further North) will be relaxing.

Did I mention my mother is visiting?

Back online in a few days.

Cribs are weird

We have guests this week, so the fusspot and I are sleeping in the living room. Since I'm a bit queasy about her sleeping on an air mattress (feel free to chime in if you have any advice), I was just planning to share a twin-sized mattress on the floor of the living room. After all, it wasn't all that long ago that JD and I were sharing a twin-sized mattress (we still fit, for the record). But since we also happen to own a (very rarely utilized) crib, I grabbed the crib mattress and put it on the floor next to the twin mattress.

Some nights my constant companion, aka the fusspot, and I cuddle. Often we sleep a few inches apart, but with her hand casually resting on a breast. And then sometimes we are like siblings forced to share a hotel room bed: we roll our backs to each other and pretend the other doesn't exist. Yesterday night was the later. Which is how I came to spend the night curled up on a crib mattress while the fusspot slept, arms flung wide open, on the twin mattress. And very, very surprisingly I mostly fit on the crib mattress and it wasn't particularly uncomfortable. So you see my point: cribs are weird. There is just no way the baby needs a mattress quite that big.

And speaking of sleep, I should add that at least once a night I glance over to see my constant companion in her most adorable sleeping position: back arched so that she forms a crescent shape, lying on her side, both arms stretched straight ahead zombie-style (one resting on the mattress, the other dangling in the air) ... with her mouth wide open. If a spare boo.bie should happen to fall into bed - she's ready!

Meet the press

Actually, that is what I'm hoping to avoid this week. I am spending the week at a very big conference in my field. Luckily only about an hour from my current residence. Very convenient and all. Except ...

it is a big conference. And super-crowded. And being hosted in Europe there is always a line for the restrooms and the idea of taking a stall, setting up ship (gross!) and pumping for 20 minutes twice a day ... was entirely unappealing. So I braved it to ask the conference organizers if there was a room I could pump in.

Which is how I came to be sitting in a beautiful, sunny room with a pile of teacups and coffee mixers and no shirt on and no lock on the door ... which is to say that I'll be pumping in the "press" room all week. Here's to hoping that those fine press fellows remember to knock.