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.