Infertility PSA

“I don’t know why people say this kind of stuff to me,” my friend stated on the phone this morning.  She continued, “It’s so hurtful and it makes me feel crazy.” 
I could completely relate.  It feels like not so long ago that I shared the same words with any person willing to listen, including but not limited to:  Chris, My Mom, co-workers, friends, doctors, grocery store clerks, waiters, my hair stylist, Wal-Mart employees, and our drycleaner.

Infertility…it stinks.  You feel sadness and disappointment for a laundry list of reasons.  Unexpectedly, it comes from family and/or friends attempting to comfort you, because they love you.   We had this discussion in one of our adoption meetings.  We agreed the following list of comments made us want to punch people in the eye.

1.      “It’s God’s will you haven’t had a baby yet.” Splendid.  My body is working against me, and now God and I are having a disagreement about whether or not I should conceive?  No one believes in the power of God’s will more than I do.  However, I can assure you there is nothing less comforting to a couple struggling with infertility than the sentiment that God isn’t ready for them to bring a baby into their family. 

2.      “My spouse and I get pregnant just by looking at each other.” And/Or, “We always get pregnant on our first try.”  Fantastic.  I could not feel more excited for you than I do at this very moment.  I have urinated on over 10,000 ovulation sticks and 5,000 pregnancy tests.  We have spent approximately $25,000 on fertility treatments.  I have a small pharmacy of hormones in my medicine cabinet.  Let me go throw myself in front of a bus while you and your spouse look at each other.

3.      “Just adopt!  You’ll get pregnant for sure!” Liar, liar, pants on fire. I always hesitate to tell people that The Trifecta was conceived after we began the adoption route.  The process is brutal; paperwork, questionnaires, essays, letters of recommendation, required reading, physicals, and financial commitments. We met a wonderful couple in our adoption class.  She couldn’t speak to me after we found out we were pregnant.  I do not blame her.  I’ve been there. As crazy as it sounds, you feel betrayed when you befriend someone else experiencing infertility, share your thoughts and feelings with them, find comfort in the common struggle …and then they get pregnant. Chris still maintains contact with her husband via email.   They have not conceived a child yet.  They have had two adoptions fall through at the last minute.  That was five years ago.

4.      “Have you thought about taking a vacation?  I think you just need to relax.” That’s a phenomenal idea.  I would love a holiday from the daily chore of taking and tracking my temperature before moving a muscle and/or empting my bladder.  Relax?  My muscles are a little tense right now.  You see, the reproductive endocrinologist just poked me with 150 needles and shot ink up my privates to make sure my ovaries aren’t clogged.   Or maybe I’m feeling edgy because the Clomid I’m taking gives me hot flashes that resemble the fires of hell?  My vagina just told me she’s exhausted and wants to go to the beach.  I’m thinking Antarctica.

5.      “Have you tried ____?” Acupuncture?  Eating red grapes?  IVF?  IUI? Hormones? Vitamin B-12?  Apple cider vinegar baths? The Infertility Diet?  Robitussin Cough Syrup?  Howling at the moon? Let me think for a moment…I spend 3-5 hours a day on the internet reading blogs, visiting infertility chat rooms, and searching for the article that will “fix” my problem.  Yes.  I’m pretty sure I’ve tried just about everything at this point.

Infertile couples aren’t perfect either. I believe infertility makes you crazy.  After our miscarriage and during our struggle to conceive I was a nightmare.  I made hurtful comments to pregnant friends.  I isolated dear and wonderful people in my life, while they were expecting, because I was jealous and sad. I deeply regret my actions and behavior during that time in my life. 

To those who know and love someone experiencing infertility, I offer the following advice: just listen, just love them.

Disclaimer:  No one elected me the official spokesperson of infertile women and men (yet).   My thoughts, opinions, and experiences are in no way those of every infertile woman and man.  Please don’t punch me in the throat.

Naughty Nappers

At 2:00 pm we laid them down to rest.

At 2:05 I heard a thud.  Chris went upstairs to take care of the crazy.

At 2:15 I heard another thud.  I opened the door of The Trifectas’ bedroom.  Chaos.  Insanity.  Pandemonium.  

“Rest your eyes.  Rest your mouths.  Rest your bodies.  If you don’t, you won’t get ice cream,” I whispered.

The pattern continued until 3:00.  Perhaps they fell asleep. 

At 3:30 the singing began.  “Work together, YES WE CAN!  Work together, YES WE CAN!” their voices chanted. Chris and I stood outside the door and giggled.  “Aren’t they sweet?” I asked.

We opened the door.  They each held a piece of chalk, the wall their canvas.  Hendley dropped the chalk.  Elizabeth froze. “Hey Mama, what are you doing here?” Mary Ellis questioned.

I had to leave the room.  Because at times like this I think parents are supposed to give the kids the smack down.  But I was laughing too hard. 

“Bring me your chalk and sit down,” Chris stated in his sternest voice.

Check out the masterpiece.

That's right.  Three artists.  Three pieces of chalk.  Three walls.

Clean up time. 

Did we handle this "the right way?"  Probably not.  We're open to criticism.

Harmony vs. Hysteria

Several days ago I shared my Zentastic experience.  At unexpected times, in unexpected places, a feeling of harmony washes through me.  Approximately 10 people “unfriended” me on Facebook and at least 4 wanted to punch me in the face.

I hope this post makes y’all feel better.

Hysteria.  I spend most of my time managing madness. 

Case study #1:

I gathered the girls around the frog aquarium. Time to clean the tank together!  I emptied the tadpoles into the fishing net for safety.  Six tadpoles lay lifeless in the net.  Only two squirmed around. “What’s wrong with the tadpoles Mommy?” Mary Ellis inquired.  “Oh um, it appears that they have the flu,” I stammered, “I will call Daddy and ask him to take them to the tadpole doctor.”

Case study #2:

Hendley refused to wear her underwear this morning.  She shrieked and whimpered for fifteen minutes.   She urinated on the couch.  “Please,” I pleaded, “Please put them on Hendley.  We have to pick up Granny and go to Ms. Joy’s class.” She stopped cold. “I want to take the toilet paper as my lovie.”  “Only if you wear your panties,” I bargained.

Case study #3:

I set the girls in the tub.  I realized we were out of clean towels.  I ran to the dryer.  I heard screams.  I sprinted back to the bathroom. Water covered the tile floor.  “Mommy,” Elizabeth preached, “We saw a bug on the floor.”  Mary Ellis followed, “We had to feed it.”

When hysteria happens I sweat.  Sometimes I cry alone in the dark when the girls rest. 

My Daddy is a Civil War scholar.   Recently they completed a living history road tour.   My favorite story came from my Mom.  There were ticks everywhere.  The humidity resembled a Nicaraguan jungle. They had to share a bathroom.  They visited a tent where a group of female reenactors were having tea and discussing the roles of Southern women during the Civil War.  “Southern women persist,” shared one of the women.

Southern women PERSIST. 

I heard a thud during nap time. I ran upstairs.  The Trifecta had jumped from their cribs and were hiding in the curtains, giggling.   They cried when I returned them to their place of rest.  Someone threw a Sippy cup at the door.  Hendley screamed.  Her legs were trapped in the rails of her crib. 

I sighed instead of cried…because Southern women PERSIST. That’s why.

Labor of Love

So, you know how much I love and adore my Daddy.  I mean, I hero worship that guy.  He’s totally selfless.  He’s completely devoted to my family. 

He spent the last two days, from morning ‘til sundown, putting together this blasted playscape.  Not an easy task.  Now I know why several “Handyman” services and area businesses rejected my request to assemble this bad boy.  Nightmare. I know because I helped for 10 minutes and I wanted to pull all my eyelashes out and bang my head against the mini rock wall.

Supervising.

Did I mention that The Trifecta "helped" the entire time?  They did.  They had hammers and drills from their tiny toolkits.  They shouted bits of pieces of conversation at Grandfather while he attempted to read the 965 page set of directions.  “Can I help?” they asked every 10 to 15 seconds.

So, it’s not just the finished product that reflects Grandfather’s love for his granddaughters.  He included them in the process over the last two days.  Now that, my friends, is a labor of LOVE.

Easter

Easter was awesome.

After church we opened baskets.

 

We hunted for eggs.  We didn't necessarily pick them up.

The Bunny brought Libby some heels.

The Bunny brought Mimi some bandaids for her injuries.

 Hendley loved hunting for eggs.

Hendley helped Granny clean up Easter lunch.

 

The resurrection gives my life meaning and direction and the opportunity to start over no matter what my circumstances. 

~Robert Flatt

Harmony

At unexpected times and in unexpected places a feeling of harmony rolls through me. 

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up.  Before college my parents paid a skillion dollars for a series of tests which would help me select a major and pursue a career.  After a long day of personality and aptitude exams we sat down with the counselor and learned my strengths lay in working with people. 

Since I love and hero worship my Dad I decided to major in business at Texas A&M.  I thought that would please him and make him proud.  I took an accounting course.  I changed my major to Education.  I love and hero worship my mother.  She taught school for many years. 

I earned my degree and began teaching first grade.  I would arrive at school by 6:00 every morning, work until 6:00 every night, all day Saturday, and sometimes most of Sunday.  I loved the children and families.  I loved the other educators with whom I worked.  I felt uneasy and restless.  I found my dream job when we moved to Chattanooga (but really my dream job found me). I earned my Master’s degree in education. I felt uneasy and restless. 

My babies were born.  I sat in my hospital bed.  Something washed over me.  I think it was peace.  I don’t know for sure.  Someone whispered in my ear, “You don’t have to search anymore.” I shivered.

It happened today at the Children’s Museum.  The Trifecta danced while singing a song about a rainbow.  We made fruit loop necklaces using the ROY G BIV pattern (but actually The Trifecta ate most of the cereal and commented continuously about the deliciousness of the sugary delight).  I stood in the middle of a tall staircase overlooking the museum.  Hendley had engaged in a game of imaginary play with a large car upstairs, Elizabeth worked downstairs at the water table, and Mary Ellis’ body moved in fast forward as she completed a loop up the staircase, down the slide, up the staircase, down the slide.  I smiled as I watched them all; so happy, so busy, so involved in the occupation of play.

At unexpected times and in unexpected places a feeling of harmony rolls through me. 

Training the Trifecta, Take Ten

I have decided that Satan has a special section of hell where mothers of multiples are forced to spend eternity potty training children. 

Several weeks ago I consulted a well known parenting web site for guidance regarding this endeavor.  I posted several specific questions.  The first:  How do I get my girls to stop having “accidents” in their pull ups?  The response was overwhelming.  THE THREE DAY POTTY TRAINING METHOD.  I’ve been using the TIMER, TRY, CRY METHOD (my own) for about 156 days without success.  I resolved to give this method a shot.

The first step, according to one Mommy, “Tell your children that accidents in their underwear will no longer be tolerated.  From now on, they must use the potty to go to the bathroom.”  I sat the Trifecta down on the couch.  “Girls,” I began, “From now on, we are not going to go to the bathroom in diapers.  You are going to use the potty to peep and shoo-shoo.  Going in your diapers will no longer be tolerated.”  The Trifecta stared back at me.  Elizabeth threw her head back and cackled, “Oh, Mommy, you’re so silly.” Mary Ellis and Hendley continued with the blind stare.  

The second step, agreed another Mom, “No more pull-ups.  If you put them in ‘big girl panties’ they may have accidents, but they will learn that they have to use the potty.  Tell them you are throwing the diapers away.”  I continued with my speech.  “Also,” I stated with conviction, “No more diapers.  No more pull-ups.  From now on, everyone wears big girl panties.”  The reactions were immediate and forceful. Elizabeth began screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOO!  I don’t want big girl panties!”  Hendley puddled.  Her shoulders slumped.  She began to sob.  I turned to Mary Ellis.  Her eyes pierced my soul.  “Show no fear,” I encouraged myself.  “Mary Ellis,” I began, “Won’t it be fun to…“ I did not finish my statement.  She leaped from the couch like a flying squirrel and landed on the ground.  She pounded her fists and feet into the floor.  “I will NOT wear big girl panties,” she yelled, “And you will not take my pull-ups away (a-vay)!”

The Trifecta tantrumed for several minutes.  I started to sweat. I don’t like to brag about my talents, but I must admit, I have learned to handle these situations with grace and poise.  “Guess what?” I said with enthusiasm, “I have a SURPRISE for girls who put their big girl panties on!” The Trifecta silenced. “A present?” inquired Elizabeth.  “Yes!  Let’s put our big girl panties on and then I will get them for you.”  Ten minutes later the Trifecta sported clean, cotton, big girl panties.  I began to panic…now the surprise…candy?  No.  Not a good idea in these undergarments.  Not after, well, you know.  Shoes.  I had purchased new shoes for the girls’ Easter baskets.  “Close your eyes!” I instructed.  The shoes bought me just enough time to prepare lunch.

“Does anyone need to go potty before lunch?” I questioned.  “NO,” they answered in unison.  I carried their veggie nuggets, grapes, and cheese sticks out the back porch.  The girls were seated, the food was blessed, and I had a container of Greek yogurt and a Diet Coke with my name on them in the fridge. 

“Mommy,” Hendley appeared in the doorway, “I want my pull-up back on.” I took this as a sign and we rushed to the ladies room.  Success.  We danced.  We hugged.  We high-fived.  Upon our return to the back porch, I noticed a puddle the size of a small pond on the concrete.  “Make Way for Ducklings” could make a family habitat in that puddle.  Elizabeth sat naked in her chair, chewing her nuggets, her underwear on the ground beside her.  “I had an accident, Mommy,” she declared.  “No problem!” I did my best to use a comforting voice, “Let’s sit on the potty and clean up.”  A few minutes later we returned, refreshed and renewed.  Mary Ellis wobbled toward me, “I need new pants, Mommy.”  “No problem,” I consoled, “Let’s sit on the potty and clean up.”

My yogurt and diet coke sat on the kitchen island.  There was urine on the porch.  I sighed.  “Girls, we need to bring your lunch inside so I can clean the pee pee off the ground.”  I grabbed the hose.  The girls cheered me on from the door frame, “You can do it, Mommy!” Elizabeth applauded.  I turned to smile at her.  The water shot out from the hose with the force of 10,000 mules.  Urine sprayed everywhere.  Mostly on me.  The Trifecta squealed and giggled. “I’ll shower during naptime,” I mumbled.

I threw the dishes into the sink, “Let’s do a project!” I pulled out some glittery egg stickers, also reserved for Easter baskets, some markers, and some paper.  We sat down and began to work.  I looked at the clock.  Time for another round of peeping.  The doorbell rang.  The Trifecta sprinted to the door wearing nothing but their underwear.  I forgot about the cleaning estimate for the house.  “Girls, you need to go in Mommy’s room,” I begged.  “NO!” they insisted.  I dug deep.  “Girls, go hide in your couch fort!  I think there’s a burglar out there!”  They sprinted to safety.

Fifteen minutes later I sat at the table with our visitor, his back to the living room.  Hendley emerged from the couch fort, totally naked.  She mooned me. “I don’t want to wear these big girl panties,” she blubbered.  I perspired.  She disappeared, but I could still hear her cries.  I walked the visitor to the door.  As he exited he spotted a pool of urine on the floor by the steps.  “I’d like to suggest you use a disinfectant,” he said.  “Yes, thank you,” I stammered.

I gathered The Trifecta.  I put them in their pull-ups and pajamas.  I carried them up to their cribs and kissed them.  I wished them sweet afternoon nap dreams.  I cleaned the urine off the hardwood floor.  I threw the yogurt into the garbage can.  I went to the refrigerator and took out a key lime pie.  I picked up my diet coke and a fork and sat down at the table.  The shower would come later. 

Hangin' At The Carwash

We didn’t really leave the house for the first year of the Trifecta’s life.  Our pediatrician warned us of the risks involved for preemies of their size.  We didn’t need any convincing. 

On the weekends, for a special treat, Chris and I would load thirty tiny toes into the car during their morning nap time.  I would pop in a classical music cd and The Trifecta would sleep.  Starbucks.  The parents wanted Starbucks.  To begin, we had not slept the night before.  They also served an artesian breakfast sandwich that tasted delicious to me. 

When we felt really wild, we went through the carwash.  By that time we had consumed our Venti Breakfast Blends in one gulp and inhaled our sandwiches.  We knew we had to hurry before the hour of napping reached its end and feeding time began. 

So, when I pulled into the car wash the other day I thought very little about the adventure.  Then it dawned on me.  The girls hadn’t been through the car wash since they were babies!  Should I prepare them?  What would they think?  Would they be scared?

I decided to do what any good mother would do.  I made a video.  

Little moments like these remind me of all the new experiences I will have the priviledge of sharing with my precious girls.

My Tiny Storyteller

My girl Hendley Grace can tell stories…big time…in a big way. 

Don't worry.  There's more.

I'm crazy about this girl.  Aren't you?

More?

We get a lot of questions.  I really don’t mind them.  I blog about my life for crying out loud, I’ll tell you anything. 

One of the most common “sets” of questions has to do with other children.  It usually goes something like this:

Total stranger:  Oh my goodness.  Are those triplets?

Me:  Yes.

Total stranger: Do you have any other children?

Me:  No, just these three precious little girls.

Total stranger:  Are you going to have any more? 

This is where I have to hit my internal pause button.  A normal person would probably say, “I don’t know!” or, “We’ll see!”  I just can’t do that.  I want to give an honest answer, even if it’s to a total stranger.   

I would love more children, at least one more.  Maybe two.  Or three.  Roll the dice.  But, when you walk the road of infertility, decisions like these are not so easy to make.  Last year I walked into Babies R Us to purchase potty training gear.  Baby fever hit me like a ton of bricks.  Seriously, I think my uterus caught on fire.  I rushed home to my husband to share the good news.  “Wow,” he replied, “Let’s pray about it.”   

Do not doubt for a second my husband’s intention to pray.  I knew he would.  That’s how he makes most of his major life decisions.  He takes his time and meditates.  Not me.  I was ready to RUMBLE! 

I know what he was thinking.  What if we didn’t get pregnant right away?  Would I take another dose of crazy pills?  Would I drive everyone around me nuts?  Would I have to take Clomid again? What if we ended up with octuplets?  

And then there’s adoption.  We started the process before the girls were born.  It still tugs at my heart strings.  I am not convinced that building our family through adoption is a closed chapter in my life.   

So today, when the stranger asked, “Are you going to have more?”  I answered (perhaps not honestly), “No, we're through.  We had to work really hard to get these three little blessings.”  

What do you think?  How do you know when you’re “through” having children?

Elizabeth, Hendley, & Mary Ellis, aged 10 days. This photo was taken the night before Elizabeth and Hendley left the NICU and it was the first time I had the opportunity to hold the three of them together.

Dancing With the Trifecta

Thirty tiny toes did dance!  Today we enjoyed the Trifecta’s mini-recital. 

I mentioned the following on Facebook before, but after today it has to be said again.

3 pair of new ballet shoes.  3 pair of new tap shoes. New leotards. Tuition for 3. All this and they would still rather dance naked in the family room.

I'll let you know when they are cast in Swan Lake.

Stand back Sammy Davis Jr.!  The Tiny Toes Trifecta is in the house!