It is all so cliche

They went back for one more ...

Both measuring exactly on schedule.

I think our RE is young and naive but she gave us a 90% chance of success.

We are all a little stressed around here.  Very excited (IF) things work out, also tired. 

Next check in 2 weeks.

Thank you for all of your support.

the worst blogger in the world

pops back in to say hi.  And um, ultrasound tomorrow. 

I think that my deep skepticism of this cycle (it was a long and slow start) and a number of early negative hpts just prepped me to call it a failure.  But in fact betas doubled and here we are.  The ultrasound is tomorrow morning, and JD has already declared his intention to skip it.

I feel like this has been one 6 week long 2 week wait because I have been basically symptom free (or maybe the symptoms were just masked by my untreated strep throat.  I did not notice the strep until I got a classic strep throat rash.  Thankfully no fever but I basically either coughed or slept for 3 weeks).

I have what can only be described as zero symptoms.  Except sleeping all the time.  But no smell aversions, food aversions, nauseau, tenderness.  Nada.

Wish me luck, and I will post an update.  On one hand I know that we are incredibly fortunate.  If this cycle worked, I will have ovulated 4 times in my life and conceived 3 times.  If it failed we at least know that calorie restriction and injectables do work as long as my medical team listens to me and quadruples the dose they would like to start with.  So we'll see what happens tomorrow.

Day 15 or so of stims ...

I am not sure why I have quite so little to say about this cycle.  I think that it's just a tad dreary to realize that despite the only intervention I can control (my weight) and all sorts of wishful thinking, my body is as ever ... slow, at best.  We're on Day 15 of stims with no distinct end in sight.  Down to daily monitoring from every 48 hours, which does give me hope. 

My morning dashes to the clinic are nothing but annoying, brusk, interaction-less interludes except for the occasional conversation with my doctor.  It is astounding how the men and women in such a packed waiting room can studiously avoid eye contact but I have yet to witness so much as a hint at small talk in the waiting room.  The clinic conveniently has you write down the reason for visit so I don't even have to say hi to the receptionist, and the shuffle from phlebotomist to ultrasound tech (no repeats yet.  A different tech every time.  Whee!) makes this entire endeavor seem even more clinical and surreal.

Oddly we have now told many of our local acquaintances, in part because I expect to need a good deal of help making the 9 am lab cut-off if JD ever goes back to work (thank you GOP for being ever so family friendly as to take away our only paycheck).  We have not, and will not, tell either the kids or our immediate families until there is some news to share.  I also haven't really bothered to tell my long-term friends since it tends to be an awkward conversation.  It's hard to strike the right note of optimism when talking about someone else's fertility treatments over e-mail, and most of our close friends have yet to even consider starting their families.  And there is just the absurdity of being so lucky as to jump back in to all of this for Project 3.0.

So yeah, chugging along but not much to report.

Chugging along, very sleepy

Well here we are at CD 6 with not all that much to report.  I fall asleep everyone night at 7:15 with the small peoples because I am so low energy.  I also fall asleep every time I sit down to read to them mid-afternoon.  Also, flu-like muscle aches.  Just plodding along.

The thing is that last night I read my usual 50 or so blog posts (by no means all IF related)and I saw only a single mention of the government shutdown, and that a passing concern about an agency's money running out soon.  I know that we live within a weird little warped zone around the nation's capitol where small incidents are writ large (needless to say there was yet again a very high police presence in our neighborhood this afternoon and our afternoon ice cream playdate was delayed because of police presence.  Fun times), but it is hard for me to separate those external factors from all the anxiety of cycling again.  Needless to say JD has not been to work since Tuesday, and while it is lovely to have some help at home and we dutifully spent his first morning off scrubbing the basement and cleaning our back "yard," it also adds another layer of uncertainty to all of this.  And of course makes my trivial complaints about a self-induced period of hunger even more slightly obnoxious.  And yet, despite my concern I am not really in a position to take much action.

Of course this afternoon I went to visit a friend with a new baby.  And while baby was lovely and my jealousy of the baby was running at a reasonable rate, it was everything else that set me off (and does of course help me stay the course on 800 calories a day).  The lovely grandmother who graciously served lunch to visitors.  The new mother (and I do mean very new) who accidentally let her nursing top ride up and stood there comfortably in front of a room of visitors exposing her bikini-read body.  And of course the off-hand comment about how hard it was to manage all of the visitors and the month of food delivery.  I am of course skipping over things - the bed rest, etc. but it was a bit hard not to wonder what I've been doing wrong on the way home? 

Absurdity, Round 3

I was going to write a long, whiny post about the absurdity of putting a busy woman on an 800-1000 calorie a day diet.  I wake up a little before 7 every day, hit the ground running at 7:25 with a little jog to the bus stop for the fusspot, come home to feed the dumpling breakfast before walking/driving/jogging him to any of his 3 preschool options, try to get in a little work, collect child #2 for nap, drive to pick up child #1 through an hour of traffic, chase them to the playground or assorted activities, cook dinner, bedtime, work some more ...

Let's just put it succinctly: it's miserable to do all of that with absolutely no energy.  It is not even that I am hungry because oddly I have not been particularly hungry the past few weeks (although I am sure that will change as my body loses some of its fat stores), but I have been extraordinarily low energy.  And really just pissed.  To start with the obvious, plenty of women plumper than I not only conceive naturally on their own, but they cheerfully slog through fertility treatments.  Or someone sets them up with insulin and they carry on.  But since magic struck twice the very exact two months when I had dropped 30 lbs, we decided to try extreme dieting.  The diet is simple: calorie restriction.  Some basic carb-limitations (no pasta, no bread, no sugar) but nothing too strict.  Just don't eat.

And ... in predictably dramatic fashion I started bleeding this morning.  17 days after I re-committed to extreme dieting, a good 10 lbs lighter (from about 157 to 147) and I may be approaching a cycle.  I ran home, got some equipment, carried on my day ... and found myself hunched over in the car by mid-afternoon bleeding through 2 plastic changing pads and one Ergo as I desperately texted JD to collect screaming children and rendez-vous in the parking lot.  It was gory.  So now I am exhausted, terrified of leaving the apartment, and bordering on developing a sudden onset eating disorder.  It feels like every snack, every meal I need to ask myself whether I'd rather have a baby than that hard boiled egg (70 calories for a large, 90 for an extra-large ...) or tasteless slice of hard cheese.  I am not sure how long I can do this diet without more childcare (let's just not even talk about how I have not exactly made any attempt to wean the dumpling.  The diet was supposed to be 1000 calories, some days I up it to 1200 to accommodate him, some days I feel like speed is of the essence and I cut much lower).

But then again, progress.  And hopefully this will be a very, very short-lived catastrophe.  And of course worth it even if it just cuts down on the amount of medication I need.  And of course the weight loss is good for my body, just perhaps not this fast.  Also worth noting, libido has been nil since day 2 of the diet.  Nil.  That should make all of this even more fun.

And now for a technical question for my IF friends.  I am slightly less impressed with Shiny New Clinic since they called in meds for me but did not e-mail me a protocol.  Since our pharmacy is reliably unreliable, I e-mailed my cycle coordinator to ask what the meds would be: follistim, progesterone, HCG.

???????????????????

Has anyone ever heard of an IUI-style cycle which did not start with clomid or femara?  Can this whole thing be done with just follistim?  And is baby aspirin entirely out of vogue nowadays?  Of course I am rather dubious of the need for progesterone having never used it in the past (baby #1 cycle worked when I was working in Europe and there was no way to get progesterone, baby #2 I hadn't weaned the fusspot so we kept putting it off and checking my levels) but it doesn't seem like a big deal either way.  But is this a real protocol?  Just injectables started on some entirely random day (protocol was written pre-cycle-breakthrough and apparently bcp for a month is also very much no longer a la mode). 

Thoughts?

Heaps of trash

We had a lot of trash to set out this week.  Far more than usual.  No, the soon-to-be-averted at the last minute government shutdown did not kick in early (although apparently our trash collection will end if the gov does shut down.  Who knew?).  It's just the normal banality of guns.  You may have read about a shooting last week ... non-stop news, endless rumors about someone loose in the neighborhood, 100 cops and ambulances descending on the scene with sirens blaring, the President gently consoling a crying child at a hastily scheduled photo op.  And then it's over.  And everyone has already moved on to the horrors abroad and the absurdity of our government and all the usual concerns.  But the truth is we live 5 blocks away and even having spent the better part of the last decade in NYC, a day of sirens blaring and text alerts warning you that your children's preschool is on "lock-down" and alerts to lock your doors can make the usual complaints of life seem trivial.  Twelve people went to work in the normal way, snapped at their kids about being late, left the dishes on the table, snuck a coffee onto the subway, and then were shot to death by a mentally unstable but legally armed assailant.  And the only lasting result on our quiet little street was a missed trash collection (we were close enough to the cordoned off security zone that the garbage men were not allowed in).

And if you are wondering what radical changes we made to live our life better in the face of evil?  Well, one rather bitchy e-mail to the dumpling's preschool listserve about the stupidity of locking the door during pick-up when the building is shared and has about 10 unlocked doors, a permanent community of homeless men who live outside (and 99% of this particular population has mental or addiction issues, I do know that is not at all true of all homeless populations.  I spent years volunteering at a family homeless shelter for perfectly ordinary people who had bad luck and no support networks), and the truth is that neither locked doors nor background checks are effective against easy access to guns.  And then I took my kids and fled to Costco to wait until the sirens slowed down a bit.  Costco, land of bright fluorescent lights and free tasters and cheap pizza.  That's it.

In other news, our insurance cleared us for treatments this morning and I am plodding along through a lovely 1000 calorie a day diet (makes me a tad grumpy) and we are all systems go any day now.

Feeling a tad like a fraud

I left the new clinic on rather a nice high.  Not only is it entirely subway accessible, but it seems like you get what you pay for (and it is pricey).  A well-organized, polished baby mill complete with full waiting room of women studiously examining months old tabloids in order not to make eye contact, on time appointments, nurses who use e-mail (hooray!!!!), a follow-up with the exact costs of everything involved, the works.  And I really liked the doctor.  She was young, sympathetic and reasonably thorough.  More than that she asked me whether my preference was for old-fashioned clomid or jumping right into injectables.  Honestly it hadn't even crossed my mind that we might just get sent home with a prescription for clomid (see: entire blog, if only it was quite that easy) but I like that she asked.  And when she casually wondered if I remember my dosing on injectables from 2007-2008 and I whipped out the shot schedule she was duly impressed that perhaps despite my age my body is not quite as healthy as one could hope for and we really ought to jump right in with some follistim.

Since our insurance coverage has not yet cleared (working on that since June), our plan of action for the time being is ... drumroll please ... work on some rapid weight loss, a la the egg diet of 2008 or the great gas baby of 2010 (long-time readers may recall that I have only gotten pregnant after rather absurdly sudden weight loss (the great gas baby was a case of gi.ar.dia left untreated for 30 days which both made me look 6 months pregnant and helped me to lose 30 lbs)) and hope the insurance clears in the next 30 days.  And then she referred me to her favorite PCOs weight-loss specialist.  And I spent the afternoon on the phone only to discover that there is no way my insurance will pay a single penny for it because they have "nutritionists on staff to help with lifestyle changes."  Lifestyle changes. 

And when I finally got off the phone with the depressing news that all I needed was some lifestyle change to cure my insulin resistance (diagnosed when I was 11 and weighed all of 90 lbs), the fusspot walked through the door with a 102 fever.   Wednesday is the one day of the week that I don't have to make the hour plus trek across the city to pick her up so there's nothing better than having your child walk through the door with a high fever and knowing that not a single adult who interacted with her thought to ask if she was feeling okay.  Not the teacher, not the gym teacher, not the neighbor's au pair who drives her home on Wednesdays.  And then I got one of those awful guilt-inducing e-mails from another mom that the fusspot had been sitting on the ground crying at pick up.  Because she had a 102 fever and no one noticed.  Awesome.

And since the day was fairly well-ruined by a miserable lump of preschooler on the couch moaning in agony (she suffers illness far more like her father than me), I decided to make it a day and run out and have a final blood draw done once the kids were asleep.  The 24 hour lab is one of those enticing tidbits that can lure you in to the trap of awful insurance, but my experience is that late night techs are even less competent than daytime ones.  Thankfully I've already twice had blood draws for the wrong tests so I thought to ask how many scripts she had, etc. and what do you know, despite printed e-mail in hand saying that the labwork I needed was in the system the burly late night tech was about to draw my blood for a blood type reading ... needless to say looking forward to another late night run to hell next week.

Also up next week: a meeting about lifestyle change, a meeting with the PCOs specialist, and a dear-lord-let-me-stay-polite meeting with my OB/Gyn about what exactly is holding up our referral. 

Whoops, and back to the title post.  As I was leaving Sh.ady Grove, the receptionist explained that I would get a "new patient appointment evaluation" in the mail.  Just as she was emphasizing the importance of my feedback to the clinic, a cute young couple came through to say their goodbyes to the staff.  It was clear from the discussion that they'd been around for quite a while and there were some sweet, fond farewells including the exchange of a thank you card with the receptionists.  And then the woman turned to me and wished me good luck.  I know she was not being patronizing, that she was just trying to acknowledge the awkwardness of graduating from the infertility clinic while some poor sod was just handing over her Amex to reception for her intake appointment.  But rather than feeling sad or jealous at her teeny tiny belly I just wanted to shout I have 2 babies at home!  I am running back to pick my 2 year old up from babysitting coop.  But you can't.  So I just said thanks and bolted for an up elevator to avoid any more conversation.  But I think it will be different this time.  I no longer associate fertility treatments with snuggly newborns.  It's just an unfortunate obstacle I have to get through, followed by months of total denial that anything good is going to come of it (if if if), followed by a sudden dive into washing newborn diapers and folding clothes (if if if).  I was in fact genuinely excited to get in to the clinic; one more hurdle down. 

And just like that we are back

and off to the races again.  At 9 am tomorrow morning to be precise.

My prayer for the past 2 months has been that I not take anyone out at our absolutely horrible insurance company.  It's a struggle.  I thought Project 3.0 would be a go as soon as I finished unpacking ... and then it took months for JD to realize that since we both want this there is absolutely no point in waiting for a "right time" and real financial costs to waiting at all.  And whee, for the first time ever we have some insurance coverage!  But what do you know, the fab insurance company's plan seems to be to run down the clock until we switch companies.  It's been 2 months and no sign of a referral.  I've waited weeks to see an ob/gyn, weeks for an HSG, 6 weeks for a repeat sperm count and today after waiting 2 weeks for a phone consult I had the great joy of finding myself on the phone 1.5 hours after the scheduled time in a hot, crowded room with 9 of the most unfriendly mothers you've ever seen shouting into the phone over the dumplings (new nickname anyone?) screams as the doctor explained that he was the other Dr. Abisheck and thus couldn't give me my referral but if I called back surely the front desk could make an appointment with my doctor in the next month.

So I'll be paying cash in the morning and for the first time ever walking into one of the so-called Baby Factories (our first 2 clinics were much, much smaller).  I automatically got booked with a financial consultant for a half hour consult (whee!  any suggestions on how we should pass the time?)  I really don't know what to expect this time.  I know that we've been incredibly lucky in the past, that we are still young, that my body is already deteoriating at incredible speed, that the insurance will require IUIs first, that I really don't a high risk twin pregnancy but then again JD really doesn't want to ever do this again ...

Oh, and we live in a new city (if you walk to the end of our block you can buy a bejazzled Obama t-shirt if you need a hint) and are all still adjusting.  My support network is slimmer than ever and 99% of any friends we could tell about Project 3.0 would tell us we are idiots.  And then there's the issue of Project 2.0, aka the dumpling, aka preschooler in need of a new nickname.  When we last left off he was doing multi-day food strikes and thankfully that has ended, but he has gained practically not an ounce since then so we have a lot of appointments for him and it is non-stop stress trying to get enough calories in.  I really will try neither to whine non-stop about poorly managed medical facilities.

Hoping at least one or two of you kept my blog in your new readers.  If you are reading this I'd love to know. 

I am not sure that this topic could get any duller

but I am popping back in to outline my 31 days of organizing/purging.  Yup, this post will be about cleaning our little apartment.  Much, much larger than the last one, but oddly lacking in any type of closet space.  I am actually planning to try and post every day for the next 31 days on this apartment topic.  And hopefully not only will the clean apartment "clean my soul," or some such thing, but it will help me to write about the bigger, slightly more germain topics too.  Let's see, those probably should include my deep anger towards my husband for his enforced 6 month ban on visiting the IF clinic (sad but true, I am super pissed.  Also counting down the days), dropping out of grad school (or not, maybe this will even be resolved in 31 days), and having my lifelong insulin resistance develop into diabetes (whew, haven't even mentioned that one to JD.  Plus, who knows what it means.  But I am on an all-new low carb and exercise binge and a plague on big, awful insurance companies that leave automated voice messages telling you you have diabetes ;-)).  Plus, you know, the usual ongoing saga of trying to grow my pint-sized second child onto the growth charts.

In the meantime, the apartment goal: clean, sweet, looking like a cross between a grown-up mid-century modern downtown apartment and a "playful learning space" for toddlers.  Honestly, I just want evening clean up to be easy and to not have clutter on the counter/shelves/playroom/living room floor.

The challenge: practically no closets.  The master bedroom has no closet.  There is no pantry or linen closet.  One bathroom has not so much as a shelf.  All of my clothes are in the "playroom" closet which has no hanging space for dresses, and also houses most of the large toys like blocks.  The kid's closet currently houses as many of their to-be-grown-into/special occasion/choking hazard so not okay for playdates toys.  The laundryoom and bathroom shelves are taken up with art supplies. 

In short, the game plan is to severely cut down on stuff.  And try to figure out what to do about book storage since I absolutely refuse to get rid of good children's hardcover books while we have small children who like to read them.  My school books are already half in storage, and I will par them down again.

And if you are wondering why this is all so absurd?  Well, we moved less than 2 months ago and I have already down a fairly thorough purge.  But now that we are in a new place (and it has no closets!  Whee!) it's much easier to see everything that needs to be done.

A few fun highlights: must weed out the few awful kids books, stash holiday kids books away, sell some of my books, organize sewing supplies, tackle last 3 boxes from the move, sell a few random pieces of furniture or donate, label dairy and meat for pots and knives, finish hanging photos on the wall, resort children's clothes, get rid of 10-30 more articles of my clothing, organize toiletries ... thrilling eh?

And who knows?  By the time this is up hopefully I'll have a clean apartment, finished up a silly hourly job that is running late into the night, have discovered a fount of new low-carb-but-also-fatten-up-your-failure-to-thrive-child-and-feed-the-one-who-doesn't-eat-veggies recipes, and have a husband who desperately and urgently wants me pregnant.  Anyway, he promised I could purchase a porch swing if I cleaned for 31 days and that's good for sitting on and crying away the late evening hours, right?

Apologies to my few long-time readers about the dull subject.  Tonight's cleaning was brief: sort and fold the "linen closet" (top shelf in the laundry room) and sort the art supplies in the laundry room.  I got rid of one full sheet set and put 3 pairs of shoes into the goodwill pile (yes, my shoes are also in the laundry room.  We're short shelves).  Up next: the bill paying/art desk/towel and cloth napkin desk in the kitchen.

Karma

was not on my side yestoday.  Inspired by some time in my friend's pool and feeling decidedly sore after a morning of snorkeling last week (tough life, I know) I went swimming today.  Glorious, lovely swimming in a free local pool.  Warm water, glass walls which make it appear outdoors, even a dreamy, muscular guy in the lane over ... and somehow I managed to break my toe.  Karma, not on my side.  My lane mate was a bit of a wild card and in trying to avoid getting kicked I swerved and kicked my foot hard into the pool ladder.

And now my middle toe is blue and swollen and rather uncomfortable.  For once Dr. Google suggests that a trip to the doctor will be unnecessary and this is unlikely to progress into anything too awful.  Except ... I walk 4-6 miles a day pushing a heavy double stroller and I really doubt I can do that this week.  Or next at this rate.  I'm currently having trouble just wandering up and down the hall in my own apartment.

Updated to add: dragged myself to the doctor in hopes of speeding up recovery.  She was duly horrified about my foot and promptly ordered an air cast, tape to pin the toes together and a large does of anti-inflammatory pain meds.  We discussed at lengthy why she would recommend these even though trace amounts will assuredly enter the breastmilk (namely, they are all safe for kids the dumpling's age ...) and I was totally sold until a small, very dim light bulb finally flickered on while waiting to pick up the prescription: anti-inflammatories that enter the breastmilk ... on the very week that we are doing an endoscopy to look for inflammation ... seems like a bad idea.  So for now I am trying to spend as much time on the couch as possible, not freak out about not having finished unpacking a full month after moving, and adjust to driving absolutely everywhere for at least a week.

I guess this is why I wasn't in such a rush to get back to the gym.

Writing again

Some people move to a new city, quit their job (sort-of, but nevertheless very unpleasantly), realize that they are again newly-isolated in a strange new city and throw themselves into getting acquainted.  Or hide in their new apartments and devotedly rearrange furniture.  I ... well ... I panicked, mostly about the fact that the dumpling turns 2 this weekend ... which really explains why the kids and I hopped on a flight (many, actually) to Hawaii on 4 days notice.

Hence, sitting on the couch overlooking the pool listening to the wind blow through the house and the rain drip out of the trees.  Mostly relaxed, definitely pleased with this most recent distraction from reality, but also with moments of total panic.

It's hard to explain to your dear friend that the reason you need a break from snorkeling in one of the most beautiful places in the world (less crowded in the winter, let me add) has nothing to do with the temperature or a little surf, and everything to do with a total panic attack about what you are doing as you approach your 32nd birthday and have no career.  Or income (said friend has never worked post-college, so it's really not the best subject to discuss with her, although she is very well aware of the luxury of her unemployment).  Or the fact that the major children's hospital can't even tell you what time your son's totally minor surgery will be scheduled for next week, and thus you have no idea if you will need to find a babysitter for your older child's school pick up (see above: new to town, no local friends, husband who works all the time).  Also wondering whether you should try and communicate to the doctors that your son currently has hand, foot and mouth disease, although since it took over 3 weeks to get a response last time, probably not worth the effort.

All to say that I have a lot to write about.  Not much of it happy.  But hopefully we'll get there eventually.  And in the meantime, one last day at the beach before we pack it up and head back to the East coast.

Move is over

mostly.  I mean, all but locating the nearest grocery store and unpacking the remain hundred or so boxes ...

The thing that slowed me down was 2 full days of extensive medical testing for the dumpling.  And it's ... not good?  Good to at least finally have aggressive doctors?  But the possible diagnosis floating around are getting scary, and the real possibility that there will be no conclusive diagnosis within a month and after all appropriate testing, and then we will have to decide what to do.  The head doctor told me to start preparing for a feeding tube.  He's almost 2.  Seems like that boat has sailed, but we'll see.

The fusspot is grumpy about the move and talks about her friends non-stop, but is really doing fine.  But the dumpling is home with me ... and he seems to be fine.  He is cheerful, plays happily, seems pretty stable.  But then I wonder if I am simply missing the signs that he is missing our daycare provider.  Or maybe he just thinks this is all one big vacation and he'll see her again soon.  Because she ... well she called on Friday night just as we were about to light candles to tell me quite succinctly that she "felt dead inside."  For all that we quibbled and she did things which I absolutely and categorically forbade (the very last week she had him she put him in the backseat of a car, sitting on another kid's lap and drove around NYC ... so very, very glad that she has completely left the childcare line of work because I certainly would not be able to recommend her to anyone else, for all that she is great with kids.  2.5 years of employment and the rule was always: no cars.  Period.  Ever) Y. loved the dumpling like her own kids.  She started watching him at 2 weeks old (for an hour or two) and starting in September she had only the dumpling for the majority of every day (although he was only there 30 hours a week). 

He called her mama and I am pretty sure that she held him in her arms for most of his naps this past year.  And there's nothing like breaking that type of bond to make you feel guilty.  Any thoughts on helping a not-yet-two-year-old with grief?  I realized that although we have lots of photos of them together, we don't have any up at the moment and I'll fix that early this week.  But I really don't have much else to offer.  They've "talked" on the phone a few times, her computer isn't set up for skype.  You'd think I'd have ideas having lived apart from JD for 11 months with the fusspot, but she is so much more resilient of a kid (and oh how I dislike that description since that's always what my parents said about me, and overwhelmingly the fusspot's interests and behavior are almost exactly the same as mine) and I am really at a loss.  I also wish I could do something to help Y. - we've invited her down for spring break, and I'll mail her some more photos, but I don't know what else to do.

All that uncertainty

First, not everything is stress and gloom.  I took the kids out for a lovely day today.  Special storytime in the Morgan library, kosher Indian lunch, spice shopping, Christmas train exhibit at Grand Central ... and then home to a fine dinner of pasta and shredded cheese.  And I am really trying to separate, to enjoy my time with the kids, to try and squeeze in a few more NYC things.   I even have a long list taped to the back of our apartment door of things to do before we leave, including haircuits (ah, Spanish-bodega-$5-haircuits, we will miss you), museum exhibits, playdates ... but let's talk about what happens when we get to the new city.

And  I guess this is what makes this whole thing so very, very hard.  I literally have no idea.  I don't know if this whole career choice of mine is over, but JD seems to be acting distinctly as if it is.  He has made -zero- effort to find me any type of childcare (which really is not the kind of thing one can do remotely).  Zero.  I had him interview two nannies from nanny shares, but both fell apart as we waited to find an apartment.  Even if I need to take a hiatus from grad school, I would like to work.  At least part-time.  At least doing something.  For many reasons, but primarily including that I need to have the possibility to support my children before I consider having more.   And I have even already lined up some entirely flexible 20-30 hours per week work.  But to do that and stay sane I need some childcare, even 10 hours a week.  We are actually bringing our favorite babysitter with to help with the first day or two of the move (and the final throwing air mattresses and suitcases in the car and driving 4-hours since JD is not planning to come for the move itself), but after she leaves?  No idea.

I really love the idea of taking a few weeks off, of enjoying some quality time with my kids, of exploring a new neighborhood, but why there?  Why is it one am and I am still working here in NYC, but may not be there.  And does JD really expect me to work part-time without any childcare? 

And the fear.  In the past month I have spent a significant amount of time with 3 teens/early-20s girls.  One of them we are trying to help support financially because her parents are awful and it is only through her incredible generosity that she still has any relationship with them, one of them we employ to babysit but I have also been finding her legal advice/paying random medical expenses/getting financial advice, and one is the daughter of our daycare provider, a lovely confident girl whose college applications I just finished editing.  And they so much remind me of the freedom of being young and unencumbered and full of energy, but also the grim economic prospects for their generation.  Last week our babysitter showed up at our apartment with a bruised, possibly broken, hand.  She was actually there with another charge, so I immediately dispensed her to urgent care, promising to cover the bill if necessary.  When she returned I went out (I know!!! wild times!!!) and received a phone call a few minutes before 11 pm from girl #3, panicked about a last minute revision to a college essay.  This child comes from a stable, loving family with 2 very well-educated parents ... who are not native English speakers.  And apparently her NYC public high school (a truly prestigious one) has provided her with no language help on her applications.  So there I was, on my one night out, borrowing a friend's computer to add subject-verb agreement minutes before the deadline.  And of course there are the weekly check-ins with girl #1 who has bravely set off alone on an airplane for a study abroad program.  I know this is incoherent, but the point is the whole picture terrifies me.  These girls are 17, 21, and 22, and yet they desperately need financial and emotional support.  It would be nice to take some time to consider "career options" and look for a job and think about "what I really want to do," but the truth is that the best option for me right now might just be a stable, reliable paycheck.  I just don't have the confidence I once did in my skills, credentials, and the job market to sit back and relax about a regular paycheck, and I really just don't want to imagine my children at 17 or 21 or 22 left quite as stranded as all 3 of these children are.

Back with a little more doom and gloom

Instead of thinking of posts, I am just going to start writing.  And I have a lot to write about, but tonight I guess it's anger.

It's 2 am.  I am packing.  There are so many things I really should be doing instead (work, for example, cooking something other than mac and cheese, for another) but I am too tired.  The fusspot is sick and she keeps crying and waking the dumpling (yes, we're still all sleeping in one room, the other room is a wall of boxes at the moment).

And I just don't get it.  I have spent so many hours watching other people's kids, running errands for them, helping with parties, rearranging my entire schedule for their convenience ... and yet I'm all alone and no one has so much as offered to help.  The silly favors I did (like loaning our moving boxes out) have entirely backfired. 

And my fear is simply that I am so burned out on flakey friends and people who are "too busy" to check in or offer to help that I will not even bother to make new friends in this new city.  No one wants to befriend doom and gloom, but it's hard to feel sweet! and perky! and interesting! when I keep wondering whether it's worth it.  Two friends wrote 2 weeks ago to say they "desperately" wanted to see me before I go.  I wrote back within hours asking them to tell me when and we'd do it and ... silence.  I suppose those were meant to be sweet, rhetorical words about getting together?

And I need friends.  I am not only fairly social, but I often really need help.  On Friday night we got home from dinner at 11 pm with 2 very tired but awake children.  And the battery was going in the carbon monoxide detector ... so it beeps every 60 seconds.  On the ceiling.  The 12 foot ceiling.  It was truly too late to call the super, but there was no way to sleep through that.  So I sent out a desperate e-mail to friends, and within 15 minutes a friend had dispatched her husband to come fix it (helps that he was out at 11 pm on Friday night picking up groceries ... ah, more things I'll miss in the big city).

And moreover, we all know it's easier to make friends at moments of transition - high school, college, first jobs, new babies.  And even harder to meet the type of women I get along with the best (and who keep similar schedules) - those who work part-time or with a flexible schedule but not the 80-hour-a-week-jobs many of my friends do.  Is it expecting too much to think that friends might offer to help the (locationally) single-parent-of-two with her move?  I have certainly mentioned to several people that we are (of course) packing everything ourselves (by which I mean myself, last move JD packed one box, this year he has yet to get there) and even if we weren't you'd think someone might think to invite us over for a meal the last week or have my kids over for a playdate?  Or is that just not done?

And in case anyone is considering a move anytime soon, my firm advice is to try not to find yourself in a position where you have to keep your apartment "show ready" for subletters every day while packing and living alone with 2 kids ... it's fairly tiring. 

The usual overwhelmed, but with end in sight

Ugh, new blogger features.  Sorry about the blank post.

I sat down to write an update last Thursday night and JD promptly called "just to check" if it was okay that someone wanted to see our apartment at 8 am the next morning.  And so goes life.

I am busy: writing, trying to keep our apartment mildly presentable so we can get it sublet before the end of the month, packing a full apartment, arranging all sorts of absurd moving details (car insurance, pre-K, doctors appointments, new utilities, new drivers license, blackout curtains, the usual mundane details) ... all without JD who is busy at his new job in DC.  It's a little exhausting.

And more than just the moving details (which honestly don't faze me that much), I am in the process of saying goodbye to friends and trying to squeeze in a few more city activities, and spending as much time as I can with the fusspot as she processes leaving her school and friends and dance and language classes ... and I am just not sure where I am going to get the energy to enthusiastically set about building a new social network.  We know plenty of people in DC (I did grow up down South) but they all work full-time, and given the awful geography, I just don't see us actually seeing any of them very much.  And of course, we are the only ones with "older" children.  Several have very new babies, but we have only one local friend to meet up with at the playground and such.

And in the midst of all of that, just a few days before the rest of the Western hemisphere turns to navel gazing on January 1st, I looked in the mirror on Christmas Day and realized I really, really need to diet (wish I could exercise but seeing as I have trouble finding time to take the trash out without the kids, I don't really see any time for a jog).  I weigh as much as I did at the end of pregnancy #2, and quite honestly look rather pregnant.  My JJ bras don't fit, and my metabolism surely isn't getting any better.  So I decided to take small and moderate steps towards reducing my sugar intake ... and what do you know 2 weeks later (and 21 months post-partum) I started spotting.  So there's that.  Which is to say that I am pretty sure that with enough resolve I could get my body onto some type of cycle (long-time readers may recall that both of my pregnancies were the result of IF treatments in a month following a weight loss of 30+ lbs.  Yes, 30+ lbs in under 30 days seems to be the magic math which kicks my body into recognizable cycle shape, even if I probably still don't ovulate without help.  And no, I am not overweight.  My BMI is still normal and I wear size 6 pants.  This is entirely about insulin resistance, not weight).  So here's to hoping to return here to vent about many absurd things (the joys of showing a rodent-infested apartment are one I will try not to discuss in too much detail, but oh my!) and also a little actual IF-related angst.