Lawyer Mama

The First Rule of Poo

In January, right after my son Holden turned 3, we decided to potty train him.  He was showing every sign of being ready.  He's incredibly verbal.  He knows how to tell us when he has to go.  Hell, he'll pee on demand for a piece of candy corn.  (Don't judge me!)  So we ditched the diapers and went for it.

On Day Two, I walked into the living room and discovered (through nose power) that Holden had pooped and went foraging for treasure in his underwear.  I controlled my gag reflex, cleaned the kid up, and we discussed an important Rule of Poo: Don't put your hands in your tushie.  We'll call this the Second Rule of Poo.

On Day Three, I walked into the boys' bedroom and discovered an even bigger mess.  Not only had Holden ignored the Second Rule of Poo, he had smeared it all over his bed, his stuffed animals, and down the track of his plastic Thomas the Train set.  Apparently he thought a nice poo slalom would be exciting for Thomas and Percy and anyone else unfortunate enough to visit the Island of Sodor that evening.  After a lot of scrubbing, some bleach, a shower and a lot of gagging, we discussed the Third Rule of Poo: Keep it in the Pull Up, and it's corollary, "Don't gross out Sir Topham Hat."

Upon further investigation of the boys' toys we had to discuss the Fourth Rule of Poo: Don't put it in a tiny metal and ceramic pot and attempt to microwave it in your toy kitchen.  (We'll worry about the whole metal-objects-in-the-microwave thing later.  I have to have my priorities, you know.)  Holden thought he was making "brownies."  You may think I'm making this up, but if you ask him about it he'll tell you about it with great pride even now.  Needless to say, I'll never look at a box of Duncan Hines quite the same way again.

On Day Four, I successfully placed Holden on the potty before he pooed.  Holden is a "hider" and doesn't like an audience, so I retreated to the kitchen to let him do his thing.  When I returned to the bathroom, I discovered that Holden had smeared poo all over the toilet and himself.  We had a shower and discussed the Fifth Rule of Poo: Keep it in the toilet, a close cousin to "Keep it in the Pull Up".

On Day Five, I hid behind the bathroom door while Holden did his thing, determined not to permit him time to violate the Fifth Rule of Poo.  Man, the CIA needs to hire that boy because in 30 seconds he managed to poo, smear it everywhere, and begin to investigate the nearby basket of clean laundry.  He did this all silently.  We had another shower, ran some laundry, discussed Rules Two through Five again and I threw in the Sixth Rule of Poo: Keep it away from Daddy's clean laundry.

At this point I decided that Holden was not actually ready to be potty trained.  If he was, his deep and abiding fondness for poo play seems to be enough of an excuse to keep him in diapers until he turns 18 or goes off to college, whichever comes first.

I've recently begun to wonder if we should try the whole potty training thing again with Holden.  It seems that some of the rules have begun to sink in.  Yesterday when I was in the bathroom, Holden barged in, put his hands on my knees, looked right into my eyes and oh-so-seriously imparted the First Rule of Poo: "Mommy, don't poo on your hands."

 

This post originally appeared on the DC Metro Moms Blog on May 3, 2009. Now that the site is inactive, I'm slowly moving my posts over to my blog, starting with this, one of my favorite posts!

Miscarriages suck.

So I finally wrote about it. 

The miscarriage. Or should I say, the latest miscarriage.

Only, you'll have to go over here to read it.  So sorry, but I don't have the energy to write about it twice.

Pregnancy After Miscarriage

I'm 5 weeks pregnant. I'm just barely pregnant. I've known for 4 days.

In those 4 days I've gone through a whole host of emotions. First was fear. When I saw those two lines I was scared to death. A history of miscarriage will do that to you.

Next came elation. I was also thrilled.  We've been actively trying for more than a year.  We'd just started down the long, expensive road involving a reproductive endocrinologist, many vials of blood and an extremely awkward encounter between my husband and a plastic cup.

Then came the reservations.  I tried to check my feelings and remind myself that it's best not to get attached.  But the thing is, it's really, really hard not to start thinking of myself as expecting a baby when my life immediately had to undergo a number of significant changes for that baby.  First and foremost, my life now revolves around blood sugar levels, insulin and carb counting.  Because my doctor took me off of oral medication and is now slowly increasing my insulin to get my blood sugar levels back under control, I'm seeing some scary numbers I haven't seen in a long time.

And this evening I started spotting.

So now fear is back.  I'm scared to death that this is the beginning of the end.  Or that my high blood sugars are going to cause a miscarriage.  Or that I didn't have my sugars under tight enough control before I got pregnant. Or that my eggs are just old and a miscarriage is inevitable.  Or that there's no particular reason for it, but I'm going to miscarry anyway.

I'm equally afraid that this spotting is absolutely nothing and all is well.

You see, I spotted throughout the first trimester during my pregnancy with Hollis.  But my progesterone was also at a scary low level and my doctor was actually shocked that I didn't miscarry.  He never said this to me, but I can read faces and mannerisms pretty well.  Especially when they seem to be preparing me for disappointment.

So much of my pregnancy with Hollis was scary as hell.  And he made it.  He's now 6 years old and slumbering peacefully in his bunk bed with a stuffed U of Miami ibis, 2 blankies, a red bean bag chair and a blue feather boa. He's one of a kind. Right now, I'm dragging up all those scary pregnancy memories that I'd tried to forget in an attempt to reassure myself.

Until about 2 hours ago, I'd let myself be pretty relaxed about this whole pregnancy thing. But with that first spot of blood, I'm right back where I was 6 1/2 years ago, googling "spotting 5 weeks" and now "miscarriage high blood sugar" and trying not to cry.

***Update: I did miscarry. The spotting was the beginning of the end. We're right back where we started and our next appointment with the RE rescheduled.***

Children, Perception and Infertility

I've written a bit about my infertility issues.  For the most part, however, I keep it on the Attain Fertility website and Facebook community.  While I do discuss the fact that T and I have been trying to have a baby for an eternity awhile with friends and family, we never, ever discuss it in front of the boys. Nonetheless, I swear they somehow know.

Perhaps this is just the age when they get curious about their friends' little brothers and sisters and where new babies come from, but both T and I have recently fielded quite a few questions lately.  Most of the questions are about how babies get out of their mommy's tummy, but T also got one uncomfortable question about how they get in there.  Because the question came from our 4 year old, T neatly dodged it by saying that you had to be married first.  Don't worry, we'll clear up that misconception at a more age appropriate date!

I have never once directly indicated to either of the children that we would like another baby. But, man, they are perceptive!

A few months ago I was looking through the teeny, tiny adorable little baby girl shoes at Target. Not because I even hoped to think I might eventually have one of those, but because I needed them for a photo shoot.  While I tried to decide between the mini red ballet slippers and the shiny black mary janes, Hollis, picked out his own favorite.  He brought over a tiny pair of pink mary janes with a white stitched flower on the toes and handed them to me saying, "When we have a baby sister, she can wear them."

My heart melted.

But I held back my tears and casually told Hollis that I didn't know if he would ever have a baby sister. I still purchased his little pink shoes. (See photo above.)

In the time since that day, I strongly suspect the boys have discussed the possibility of having a baby brother or sister.  While the boys were in the bath last night and I was at a parent association meeting, T overheard an interesting conversation.  Holden asked Hollis, "When is Mommy going to have another baby in her tummy?"  Hollis replied, "Mommy can't have a new baby. She has to get fat first!"

When T told me about this I nearly peed myself laughing, but then I had to pause to wonder where my very perceptive children have picked all of this baby stuff up.  Because, you see, there's this:

I just took a test yesterday afternoon. Only a few hours before Holden began quizzing his younger brother.

When the double line immediately started to appear, I called T upstairs and waited until he'd seen the test before I burst into tears.  After 16 months, several rounds of clomid and one cancelled appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist, I am finally pregnant.  And apparently my children are more reliable than EPT.

I'm also scared to death. Part of it is the usual, "holy crap, what have we done, I'm turning 38 29 in two weeks, we must be insane" stuff.  But the rest of it is about all the pregnancies that have come before this one.  So many times this beginning has ended badly. I'm almost afraid to let myself hope and yet, for some completely irrational reason, I actually feel good about this.

I'm trying not to wait for the other tiny, pink, flowered shoe to drop.

My Secret Addiction to Home Pregnancy Tests

Hi, my name is Stephanie and I like to pee on sticks.

It all started innocently enough.  The first time I got pregnant, it was an accident and I was about 2 weeks late.  (This seems shocking to me now considering how closely I monitor my monthly cycles!) I picked up a test and then another and then one more.  Just to be safe.

There was a certain satisfaction in ripping open the package, reading the instructions, carefully positioning the test, peeing on a stick and then setting it on the counter, watching the clock the whole time.  But I forgot all about that in the “OH MY GOSH, I’M PREGNANT!” reaction that was equal parts horror and elation, followed by the “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m not pregnant anymore” sadness.

I rediscovered my secret love for pregnancy tests a few years later when the husband and I started trying to have a baby on purpose. I got to buy and pee on those pregnancy tests again!  After the miscarriage, I found yet another way to fulfill my illicit craving – the ovulation predictor kit.  Now I could pee on a stick 5 or even 8 or 9 times.  IN ONE MONTH! 

I even picked up the “pee on a stick” lingo and wrote POAS as I talked with all of my fellow addicts on a certain very popular baby site that may start with Baby, contain the word Center and end in dot com.  Yes, there’s a whole raft of POAS addicts out there.  We swapped the best sites to buy them online; we debated the merits of our favorite brands; we pounced on any information found online or off about the purported sensitivity of each test and debated just how early was too early to POAS. 

I'll admit it; I was a bit of a pee stick whore.  I tried them all.  Pink lines and blue lines, plus signs and even words.  You can’t imagine the wonder I felt the first time a pregnancy stick actually used the words “not pregnant.”  I even had a bit of a flirtation with the “alternative” test lifestyle.  You know, I peed in a cup and then dipped a test in.

After all of that, I’m back to my one truly constant POAS relationship – the conservative yet reliable double pink lines.

Yes, I know it’s an odd relationship.  I could save so much money just waiting for my period to show up every month.  But I’ll keep peeing on a stick every month.  You see, it’s what I do and it makes me feel like I have the tiniest bit of control over my life and my infertility journey.  And maybe one of these days I’ll figure out how to POAS without peeing on my hand.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell Ruled Unconstitutional: Big Surprise

I wrote this post for BlogHer a couple of weeks ago, but my overworked/slacker self didn't post it here until now!

The Department of Defense has not handled Don't Ask, Don't Tell well.

In case you've been living under a rock, DADT is the official military policy on gays and lesbians in the military. Under federal law, gays are prohibited from openly disclosing their sexual orientation while serving in the U.S. armed forces. Make no mistake. Gays are definitely serving in the military right now. They just have to lie to everyone about a fundamental part of their lives to do it.

That's wrong. Even top brass in the military agree that DADT is wrong.

The House and Senate were poised to legislatively end DADT this year, but Secretary Gates asked them to give the Department of Defense time to study the issue. Now, I'm a huge fan of research, but I don't see why a mammoth study is necessary to do the right thing. I understand that issues will arise, but I don't necessarily think that they'll be quite as complicated as the DoD thinks.

As part of the DADT study, the DoD surveyed service members about their feelings. Yes, their feelings! It's almost as if the DoD seems to think that repealing DADT will result in gay pride parades on bases across the U.S. and soldiers sashaying across the battlefield. That gives the term “battle buddy” a whole new meaning, doesn't it? But seriously, it's not like military uniform regulations will be changed to allow pink feather boas and sparkly tiaras with BDUs. Nor will love pats on the rears of fellow service members or shower love play suddenly become OK. In actuality, nothing much about military culture is likely to change.

In an effort to make sure everyone has a chance to air their views, the DoD also surveyed military spouses about DADT and gays in the military. You read that right. They surveyed the spouses! Never before has the military consulted spouses about DoD policy in this manner and the questions were ridiculous, nearly equating being homosexual with having typhoid or leprosy. I'm just waiting for the survey of our pets' feelings on Sgt. Gus and his partner Bob being allowed to bring their poodle to the base dog park.

Read the rest of this post on BlogHer.com.