Wednesday, July 30, 2008

oh yeah,


Nothing more surprising than being scanned by a guy I studied with (aibee factoid: I was a second year radiography intern by my early twenties. I was good at it too, and on one rotation manned an exam room SOLO for, like, three months and impressed the resident Radiologist there on more than several occasions with my awesome - and on full manual override - films. Then I got sick and the rest is a long, sad, sorry and kind of hungry history. BUT ANYWAY), and even that wasn't very surprising because MyTown is a virtual SmallTown.

The abdominal scan revealed two follicles measuring at five weeks each (aibee's brain: maybe I AM only five weeks pregnant?) with nothing visible inside. (aibee's brain: what IS there to see at five weeks pregnant? Which I obviously AM. I'll tell you. Nothing. OBVIOUSLY). To confirm this, he suggested a vaginal ultrasound (him: I do a thousand of these a day. me: uh, but I know you. him: THANK GOD. Tracy?) and that showed more of the same, ie nothing.

So when I got home, I called the reproductive unit to discuss coming in for ANOTHER scan (which aibee's brain is certain WILL confirm a viable five and a half week pregnancy) with them before scheduling a D&C for Friday morning (which aibee's brain is sure will be cancelled)

answered the phone, which was cool because I really don't give a shit, and this is WORD FOR WORD the ensuing conversation:

"Hi Karen, it's Anna Bee here", and so, CLEARLY stating who I am and, one would assume, explaining why I then said "is there anyone there I can speak with?".

(and just so we're clear, my name is NOT Anna Bee. My real name is SO distinctive that when I checked the USA social security register ie the one with A BILLION more citizens listed than the Australian WILL ever have, it gave NO returns, so it's not like that dumbass couldn't have worked out who was on the phone)

Karen's obviously either looking for trouble or is actually THAT amount of dumb, because she said "You can talk to me". So I said (again, casually and easily because I kind of have bigger fish to fry right now than holding a grudge or fearing an interaction with that idiot) "thanks, Karen, I appreciate that, but I'd prefer to speak with someone else", and then SHE said "well I don't want to talk to you either" before jamming her finger on the hold button and flouncing off.

Another stellar moement in conversational history occurred last night when I called my brother and sister in law about a phone call I'd received that was meant for them (see above: weird ass name, only a handful in entire national phone book). Bla bla general conversation bla, and when my SIL asked how I was, I wasn't going to even MENTION anything, you know, REAL. Then in the space of a moment that encompassed a whole lot of overthinking about possible outcomes, I made the decision to take a risk and treat these people like they ARE my family, and shared the most recent details of my life. They'll be listed with the hospital as the ones to call if anything unplanned occurs (ie I DIE) and I figured that maybe part of the reason they're not in my life because I don't INCLUDE them in my life, and at this moment and in this situation, apart from you guys here, I really DON'T have anyone looking out for me. I'm alone in this and have even had to LIE to the hospital and tell them my neighbor (who is a man who had a stroke several years ago, is blind, and needs a gopher to get around in and who is NOT coming to stay) is coming to stay with me for the requisite 24 hours of post surgery at-home care, and this is my FAMILY we're talking about here.

My brother's response? Why would you call us to tell us your bad news?

So I'm torn between believing I DID act inappropriatly by calling and saying "hi, bla bla and since you asked, how about some Heavy Drama to brighten your day?" and that he is a TOTAL asshat.

let's talk about poop, baby

Daniel's been dry since late January, I reckon, and has been pooping in the potty (and sometimes the Big Boy toilet!) since around mid June.

Staying dry wasn't a challenge at all, despite me doing everything his daycare providers said was a Very Bad Idea. Walking arund with no pants on apparently teaches them to wee anywhere at anytime, but Daniel took to the idea of NOT peeing his pants OR on the floor, really well.

An all week Thomas Fest helped (thanks for the idea, Heather!) A LOT, and worked so well that he's only recently dropped his universal sign for "I'd like to watch a DVD, please", it being he'd drag his potty out and place it in front of the TV before taking his pants off and sitting on the potty whenever the viewing urge hit him.

So he's been quick learner in re the whole Not Dampening His Pants dealio.

I do NOT take any credit for this, aside from going with when I thought the time might be right-ish, because he pretty much taught himself. After all - and this is the basis for My Big Potty Training Theory which is based on a control group of One Only toddler - so it must be right - little ones live to learn, that's all they do and it's all they WANT to do.

And this is how I applied that fact to my theory: Up until a certain age, all bodily excrements are performed under automatic pilot, ie they don't think about it, they just do it. AT that age, they're gaining awareness of when they do it and where they do it, so (and here's more theory) if we DON'T provide them an alternative to crapping their pants, surely they'll then learn TO crap their pants instead? I suggest then, that this is when toddlers become "resistant" to potty training. After all, children learn by repetition (just watch your kid put this in a box and take it out again and out it in and take it out and put it in and take it out add infinitum until he finds something else to repeat until it drives you nuts before moving on to the next weird little, albeit short lived, habit) so if we taught them to use their diaper by allowing them to do so repeatedly at a time when they were gaining an awareness of what was going on down there, then we've taught them well.

If, on the other hand, we provide the means to learn something new, (like, random idea here, USING the POTTY), isn't it probable that they WILL learn at least SOMETHING about the experience at hand?

And that's my theory and why I don't take credit for the (relatively) early age at which Daniel became dry.

Pooping was a bigger transition, and Daniel would hang on ALL DAY if necessary, waiting to poop in his sleep nappy. Every time he did, I did what I thought was "right" and cleaned him up while offering encouragement and advice and telling him all about big boys who pooped in the potty.

Seeings as he knew to wait until he was wearing his catchment device, I knew he knew what to do, so it was kind of frustrating that wasn't he doing it.

So I asked his daycare providers what they thought might help.

(But! Don't be afraid to use ideas gleaned from people you'd ASSUME would have to know fuck all about children because sometimes The Childless DO find the solution you need, because sometimes it's is too hard to see it when you're looking RIGHT AT the problem)


They suggested doing NOTHING when faced with The Righteous Dump.

I do NOT mean they suggested I let him stew in it while he thought about his actions, I mean they meant (what?) clean him up as usual, but do nothing emotionally.

Don’t acknowledge the “accident”, or that it even was an "accident", and avoid providing reassurance.


The reasoning behind this was that reassuring them "it’s okay” (or whatever) and/or telling them that it was “an accident” kind of teaches them that it kind of ISN’T okay, becasue if it really WAS okay, we wouldn’t have to tell them it WAS.

And this can stress them out because all they really want to do is keep us happy.

Additionally, any reassurance beyond “it’s okay” reinforces not only that it’s NOT okay, but that THISWASABIGMISTAKE!OMGOMGOMG!!

Keep it calm, don’t apportion an emotion or a judgment to the experience, and don’t even TALK about pooping in the potty. By now, if they're peeing in the potty then they know what to do and where to do anything more, uh, substantial too, so it’s just a matter of putting the theory into practice.

And my addition to all this is that when they do marry theory with practice, go nuts. Sing, dance, clap, and celebrate THAT moment, and don't worry about the next.

So I stopped encouraging Daniel to poop in the potty, and stopped reassuring him that all kids make mistakes, it’s only time and bla bla BLA, and stopped acknowledging pretty much EVERYTHING poop related.

And he really DID learn to not crap his pants amazingly fast after that.

I'm NOT saying that this is THE way, because god knows I didn't even attempt THE way in re The Pee, and THAT worked out FINE and Daniel is showing no early signs of a future psychiatric need.

What I'm saying (again) is that tis is what worked for us, and it happened to be a GREAT idea suggested to me by THEM, so while I'd LOVE you to thank ME for my brilliance, um, go ahead. It was all my idea. *whistles innocently*

Monday, July 28, 2008


When I saw my own doctor last week, before I knew when in my ultrasound was going to happen, he gave me a form for an independent ultrasound.

To which I am heading off for in a few minutes.

After drinking two big glasses of water and NOT PEEING for the next ninety minutes.

And I'm still technically pregnant so THAT ought to be fun.

I don't think the results from this scan will be any different from the last, but I want pictures to remember all the good, sweet and exciting times this last seven weeks has given me.

I want something to hold on to, even if it is a photo of nothing more than two little air balls stubbornly hanging out inside what appears to be a very hospitable uterus.

And the absolute truth is that while I'm not holding out hope that today will tell me anything different from last week, I kind of am too.

The aside here is that I already need to pee.

The other aside is I'm still not ready to think about a D&C on Friday, and my body doesn't seem ready to think about this not being a "real" pregnancy.

Maybe today's scan will help with that.

This is all so difficult time as I still DO feel pregnant. As much as I did before anyway, which is not much at all but as much as I did when pregnant with Daniel, but with less boob.

and also, that Pee Factor? Is now very, VERY high.

Sunday, July 27, 2008


I am here and I am reading.

Thank you for your support.

When something bad happens, I offer my condolences.

There's never the "right" thing to say, so I just say something - and then think about how trite and meaningless the words "I'm sorry" invariably sound. They could never make a difference, I've long thought.

Now those words are being offered to me, and I know they really do help a damn lot.

Your presence here is invaluable, and that you've taken the time to be here is truly unforgettable.

You will always be the people who cared enough to help me through the very worst time of my life.


Thursday, July 24, 2008

very, very not good news

I have not one, but two blighted ova.

Two, for fuck's sake. TWO.

Both embryos implanted and continued to divide, but neither developed further than being an egg sack.

Which is SO ironic I can't even begin to explain.

Further irony points acquired because I can't mourn the loss of my babies, because they were never real anyway.

I could have had a D&C tomorrow morning at 11. I filled out the admission forms, but I'm about as ready to let go of my gently rounded tummy as I am the hope that maybemaybemaybe THIS is the dream, that the babies are real and the end of them is not.

Which is to say, I'm not ready at all.

This is so fucking sad, then I tell myself there's no reason to be, it's not like they were ever alive anyway.

And that doesn't make me feel any better.

Because to me, they WERE alive.

And they were boys.




Fuck, could I make myself any MORE miserable? Jesus.

ultrasound in t-30

Tuesday's beta held the same amount of thrill as the last two.

ie not so much.

It was around six thousand bla bla somethingorothers. I honestly didn't hear the exact number, BUT! It was nurse wonderful who broke the news so the second thing she said before I even had a chance to even think "shit", "damn" or "motherfucker" was all snapping me to attention and saying things like "Remember what we talked about last time, aibee! Everything else looks good. That's what's important right now!". I swear, LOVE, especially considering it was nurse negativo who did the blood draw Tuesday morning and she was all squishing her face up and pursing her lips and saying SHIT like "we want the number to be well into the teens" and "It might be an ectoppic, but we don't really know. The numbers are inconclusive bla ba BLA".

Question, sunshine: then why SAY it?

Why not stick with saying stuff like, ooh, lemme think, "the numbers are inconclusive" - and then shutting the fuck up?

I asked my GP (who(m?) I also love dearly) why they're such shitheads there (apart from Annette and Mary. You are exempt and I love you both dearly. Kisses, etc), and he asked me why lawyers don't lie on the beach. Which is an analogy I don't even GET even though it kind of explained it anyway.

So, yes. The ultrasound is in, like, twenty minutes and Daniel is asleep and I am in my jammies. Awesomeness or current time frame? Low, but I wanted to publish at least one positive entry before I DON'T KNOW DON'T GO THERE.

Group hug?

Monday, July 21, 2008


I've been avoiding (you: NO SHIT?) writing down last week's number because it felt kind of dumb to get excited about an hCG level that's barely even touching the 3000 specificunitsofmeasureIkeepforgetting range.

That's, like, thirty times less what it was when I was seven weeks pregnant with Daniel.

I'm sorry for not telling, is what I'm saying, and to anyone who's been waiting to hear how we're doing over here, I'm sorry for making you wait.

I'm sorry to, for me, for not sharing my feelings. It's a bad habit of mine and one I really need to get on to. I'm like this perfect self contained unit and the truth is, perfection, even if it WERE possible, does not lie in separating oneself from the rest of mankind.

This may be just some random pages I churn out when the urge hits, and I know I don't much delve into much more than the Then We Did This scope of literary genius, but it's still the place I MOST share my feelings.

I need to get on that, not because it makes for interesting reading, but because I need to stop living my life like it's sung to the tune of a Simon and Garfunkel classic.


We're (ie, the BABY and me) are doing well.

The nurse who took my 2pm call at 3.45 when I finally extracted my head from my ass, was a nice one, Annette, and she said, while low, the number was still a good one, that they've had girls (because I too, am so young and dewy) with numbers lower than that who have gone on to deliver perfectly healthy babies, and that higher numbers guarantee nothing.

Essentially, it's a crap shoot.


Keeping in mind the absolute FACT that I've had no spotting, cramping or anything untoward or worrying AT ALL, there's no immediate reason to think this is all less than woot-worthy.

I STILL haven't scored an ultrasound though, and that kind of ooks me out. I mean, what are they waiting for? A miscarriage so they don't have to actually do one? Wouldn't I need an ultrasound even if I did? So I don't get why they're dragging their damn heels on it. I mean, I CAN'T wait to display my undercarriage to who(m?)ever is driving the wand that day.

Anyway, there's another blood draw on for tomorrow morning (at frikkin' dawn AGAIN), and then another ridiculous wait to hear the result which will likely be another one that tells me NOTHING.

Science. Man, sometimes it's a real pain in the ass.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

right now

I'm counting down the MINUTES until my bands come off.

(and seconds after they do, I'm going to eat a goddamn lettuce salad because you have NO idea how much you appreciate a frickin' LETTUCE until you're left picking it out of the wire in your mouth for DAYS after you made the mistake of eating it while still blind to the universal FACT that bands + lettuce = HELL NO)

Monday, July 14, 2008

doom and gloom

I've been kind of quiet about this whole I'm Pregnant! dealio because my first beta brought back a result of 481 somethingorothers, and my second, a full seven days later, came in at only 1257.

ie and in my world, nothing to be excited about.

Oh, the unit is all "it's within acceptable ranges" and "we wanted it to double in a week, and it tripled", and granted, the internet is all "do NOT judge a pregnancy by its hCG!!", but I do. A whole, rather depressing lot. Especially as the internet also continues with "as long as it doubles every 48 to 72 hours", and the internet knows! Which is great, because mine doubled in around 111 hours.

Third beta is tomorrow at dawn.


Le Yuck.

and I just actually read the page I linked to above and why did none of the other pages I'VE obsessively scoured over the past week mention hCG production slows down by the sixth or seventh weeks??

The dates corresponding to the blood results above? The fifth and sixth weeks, and while low, fall within range.

Like the unit said.

*slaps self upside of the head*

But reading and further, I just calculated my hCG doubling time and it was 5.05 days, which is substantially more than the page's earlier "up to 3.5 days" reprieve.

Returning to depressive state now.

and man, this all sucks because I can't be excited about any of it. Only scared.

comparisons and mysteries

On the left: me, five weeks pregnant in 2005. On the right: me, not even five weeks pregnant in 2008.


Moving along to:

Seven weeks pregnant in 2005 versus six weeks and six days which is essentially THE SAME (doh) amount of pregnant going on today in 2008.

Which, unfortunately, isn't that different from me being NOT pregnant in 2008.

Except I weigh the same now too, if not a pound or three lighter, the physics of which confuses me because it has NOTHING to do with the old Muscle Weighs More Than Fat walnut, and it's not like I gained it there and lost it elsewhere because my ass is, in fact, the same size.

Seriously, how does THAT work??

and finally, this has been edited SO MANY times because I kept randomly publishing the stupid thing which, hello, Placenta Brain V2.0

edited again. Jesus.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

literary thumb twiddling

Daniel is on a Draw On Everything rampage, so it's a good thing I worked out (for I yam smaht) that white board markers wipe off almost everything, including his FACE. Downside? Only four colours. BUT, as three of the four (red, blue, green) are the same colours as Thomas, Gordon, Percy and James, Daniel is happy. Guess who's doing all the drawing? Then some freaky thought pops into his head and he wants me to draw a damn seagull or something equally as abstract.

I'm also doing a lot of Wiping Whiteboard Marker Off the faces of various tank engines. Life. Man, it's JAM PACKED.

which is a very odd expression. I mean, packed full of JAM? For reals?

(this break in transmission is brought to you by Daniel carrying Hollie, dragging them both over to me while saying "too heavy too heavy" then backing up so I could pick them BOTH of up and have us all lap snuggle for a few minutes. The Cute, is KILLING me)

More semi naked men on my massage table also kills me. Dead.

GODAMMIT, when are people (ie MEN) going to get that when I say "wear loose, comfortable clothes", I'm not talking jeans you could patch the space shuttle with teamed with a corduroy shirt??

The story:

My bowen client stripped down to his jocks, which were NOT boxers, if you get what I'm sayin', and I was all Where the EFF do I look now?! Also, manboobs. I mean, I like the guy but I do NOT what to look at his package NOR do I wish to gaze at his hairy nipples. So I threw a blanket over him, much like one does a CORPSE, saying some shit like, "to take the chill off". Now, the heater was BLARING and it was like HADES in there, but there was NO WAY I was going to spend the next 45 minutes starting at his goolies, so when he said "Nah, I'm fine", I said "the bowen lowers your body temperature", which it does, but not to hypothermic levels so white lie bla BLA, and then I practically staple gunned that fucker to the table around him.

And for that delightful visual, you are most welcome.

Let me replace it with another one.


I worked on Saturday morning so Daniel went to the Fake Grandparents for, like, a WHOLE DAY. Okay, not really, but factor in the half hour drive from there back to work, the two and a half hours there, the half hour drive back to the FG's, the ten minute drive to find them at the play cafe, and the multitude of hours spent AT the play cafe where Daniel spent HOURS defying gravity and fending off rogue babies from Fake Grandma's right arm strong hold.


(now he's carrying Hollie like a sack of potatoes and heading toward me grunting "ooya ooya ooya", which is code for "TOO HEAVY". Meanwhile, I sit here and write about it instead of a) rescuing the cat or b) helping the kid)

We've been waiting for the contractors to arrive and in the meantime, they did, so the cat has fled and now there are men in my ceiling and Daniel is sitting next to me on his little blue chair, absolutely fascinated by the whole Pink Batts Disappearing Through The Manhole routine.

Dudes, we're getting insulation!

And we just came back in from inside (this is an Installment Edition) and now the batts are all in the roof space, the men are wandering around up there patting them down or rolling around on them or installing spy cameras or WHATEVER. Point being, there's some noise going on up there and we can hear footsteps and voices and Daniel is wandering around trying to figure out where they are. Wait.....and SCORE! He just went for the manhole, pointed and said "Where's da man? Up in there!"

Back again after dodging another rainfall (or, in the spirit of Truth In Reporting, escaping a fucking DELUGE), and Daniel took my hand and walked me through the house "reassuring" me, all "that noise? what is it? Is okay.". Just so I wasn't worried.

And because I AM the kind of mother who talks about ehr child's poop, Daniel's been regularly making deposits into the molded plastic bank for quite some time now. It all began after he walked toward me, cowboy style, in MacDonald's the other week and balefully informed me he'd "poopah da pants". Quick clean up and, woe, LEAVING the playground in favor of clean underpants. Outcome? Dude bought the clue. Since then, it's been all potty, all day. ANYWAY, today's (or more correctly, this hour's) poop happened to form a shape as it Mr Whippied its way into the pot, so Daniel looked at it, looked at me (aside: pooping is a VERY private business for Daniel [and yet, REPORTAGE!] and he before he sits down, he'll clear the area by waving his hand and saying "MUMMY GO WAY!") and yelled "TRIANGLE!".

I probably should have taken a photo of THAT too.

Monday, July 07, 2008

le grande sigh

The Judging The Gestational Age deal is all weird when dealing with an IVF pregnancy. I mean, do I count the date from the embryo transfer or from the date from when that first cell split into two? Or is it from other date pulled from the unit's virtual ass?

Logic tells me I count from when the embryo first became a single, dividing unit when before it had been two separate entities from two separate humans (and with that sentence, the miracle of life suddenly because even MORE real), but my reproductive unit is so disagreeable that they'll probably tell me it's something else entirely, just to fuck with me.


Taking MY logic into account, we're about to tip into the six week mark - and this despite the fact that it's only been FOUR since the actual day (because suddenly your vagina becomes a freakin' WORMHOLE) of conception. I feel about as pregnant as I did when six weeks pregnant with Daniel. Which is to say, NOT AT ALL.

I'm as tired as all fuck though, which if I wasn't such a denying fool, IS feeling pregnant (note to self: you idiot). I fall asleep on the sofa and don't wake up 'til dawn. I drag my ass around willing the elephants tied to my ankles to fuck off already, and I can barely carry Daniel anymore, which leads to feelings of weepitude and sorrow because he's my baby, and now some OTHER kid is going to be my baby.

I'm kind of titchy and short tempered too, which was okay back in the day because the only fool receiving my wrath was my dickhead ex. I was also working like a machine so literally working out a WHOLE lot of angst while at the same time feeling there was Meaning! and Purpose! to my life. Not like this raising a child thing, which obviously in my fucked up head, has little meaning and no purpose.

Most of the time I'm okay, if by "okay" I mean "can rationalise my way through the bullshit", then something stupid happens and some switch flips me from Relatively Normal to Raving Lunatic.

Stellar moments include yelling at Daniel to "pick that SHIT up!!" when trying to clean up some of the constant mess created in households such as mine (ie plus one small child and minus one purposely employed nanny) , holding him tight and demanding he "stop WRIGGLING, FORGODSAKE" when tying small shoes onto small feet, and growling "SIT DOWN!" when Daniel told me he "wan' to get owwt" of the stroller.

and it's so much worse than that and I don't even know if it's in my head or if I really AM emotionally fucking my kid RIGHT over.

Then I feel so fucking sorry that I can barely breathe so I suffocate him with hugs and kisses and want to cry again because HE'S my baby. And here I go again. Right now. Live feed. Woot.

Which is ANOTHER flashing neon sign that I'm pregnant, but one that's not as acceptable as puking on my shoes.

and if I WAS puking on my shoes, you KNOW I'd be all "Bad prawn."



Oh, and quite apart fro the emotional Roller Coaster Of Weep, I periodically get SO fucking depressed, all "what the fuck have I DONE?", "my life has NO value because where is my CAREER?!", and my favorite, mostly because it's like, a minimum of NINE WHOLE MONTHS AWAY, "if I feel like THIS much like shit NOW, I'm DEFINITELY going to get PPD and then ALL our lives will be in the toilet. And medication, I'm going to HAVE to take it, and bla bla bla and BLA". That last concern is a doozy, and is even MORE convoluted that you even KNOW.

What pisses me off most though, because the catalyst for all this catastrophic thinking WASN'T finding out I'm pregnant, it was some bust up The Lawyer and I had. I feel like shit over a MAN, y'all. Which is ALL KINDS of fucked up.

Then I rationalise that and remember that, oh yeah, when I'm on overload, I focus on RIDICULOUS shit to be blow my diodes on.

All that being said though, I read yesterday that depression can be a pregnancy related symptom, so I kind of feel better about being so sporadically morose. I also rapidly shifted from "what have I done wrong??" (aside :NOTHING) to "dude is a FOOL". Expect a rapid shift back any time now, but for now, we're coasting and are only worried about losing my marbles an entire year from now.

I don't remember feeling so emotionally taxed when pregnant with Daniel, but I to have been considering all the drama with my dickhead ex who had just disappeared after I left him before he BEGGED me to let him come back which, what?

Point being, my last pregnancy wasn't a time of peace and calm and feeling nurtured and safe either, which is another reason why I feel depressed and woeful now. It not being fair and all *rolls eyes*

In summary?

When I say I don't feel pregnant, DON'T BELIEVE ME.

Saturday, July 05, 2008



You're it!

Please email your name, address and bank account details (what?) to aibiffity at gmail dot com, and sometime in the near (ish, or thereabouts) future, I'll send you...something awesome.

And light, Ms I Live On The Other Side Of The WORLD.

Like, maybe some weed.


Tuesday, July 01, 2008

free stuff!

I love Swistle and I think you should too.

But that's an aside and not the point.

The point is that she's taken this whole Pay It Forward contest deal and gone freakin' GLOBAL with it.

And I'm in, because I love.

What happens is this: you comment on this entry anytime before midnight this Friday, July 4....which could be any time at all on your side of the world, so good luck with that.

Anyway, after you all rush at me with the comments, a random number generator will sort through the hundreds and hundreds and HUNDREDS of them to pick YOU, and you'll be the winner!

You will then email me your address details and I will send you something yet to be determined and you will APPRECIATE it and LOVE it REGARDLESS because it was FREE, and then you, the winner, will hold your own Pay it Forward contest and the Circle of Life will continue thusly.

Also, world peace! That much closer!

I'm pregnant


2005-2007© aibee