Pinterest, Pin ME!

There are moments in my life when I actually do something really stupid that turns out to be really cool. I figure it stems from that first summer when lack of a job trapped me in the itty-bitty apartment watching HGTV for hours. That was the year I recovered our stool using an old pair of my jeans - not my finest craft project. And over the years I've had numerous failures: the year I tried to attach a random piece of fleece to the bottom of a sweatshirt to make it longer, the one Valentine's when I used a jello mould to bake a heart shaped cake and it over-flowed, or the quilt patches I still haven't put together.

But as that silly movie, Meet the Robinsons teaches all the little childrens, we must always "Move Forward" and that is what I guess I've done through the years. Either that, or I've stayed addicted to making things because it makes me feel satisified when I'm all finished. It's like cleaning a tile bathroom (not a fiberglass one, I'll blog about that later); once it's all done and gleaming beautifully, you get this overwhelming thrill of "Wow, I just did something awesome!" And then the rest of the day doesn't feel like such a waste when I sit and watch Star Wars (who am I kidding, it's probably Dora) for hours on end.

That's what crafting does for me. So I'm sharing a couple of my simple craft ideas that saved me from spending money and time to do something I needed to do.

For example, when I was pregnant, I got a ton of these beautiful plastic links - I love these things and used them a bunch when Jenny was little. But once she grew up and stopped chewing on everything, I didn't really use them much anymore. I didn't want to get rid of them,  because I love these little things, so I decided to put them to good use. I used them as tie back for the curtain in her room. Tah-Duh!



It was cheap because I already had a ton of these rings and it was easy because all I needed to do to attach them to the wall was use one of those little picture hooks that comes in the picture hanging kit I get every so often for Christmas.

By the way, you can NEVER have enough of those little kits. They make for great helpers when you're doing crafts. All those little nails and tacks and the wire for hanging it all together makes for great other projects and . . . I digress.

Now this method of tie-back allows me to do that theatrical style "poofing" of the curtains. It looks awesome in her room.

Having this success, I decided to do something a bit different for another set of Jenny's curtains. I have these letter links. They are perfect for tracing on Jenny's Magna-Doodle and they make great curtain tie backs too.

Now with these, I had to do something a little different. I have this beautiful ribbon that was on one of Jenny's gifts - it's the really cute yellow ribbom with white polka-dots and I never knew what to do with it. I had saved it because it was so cute, but I didn't want to just put it into her baby book and then one day go, "Uh, I just really liked this ribbon; that's why I saved it". For some reason, that would've been silly or something.

First I took the ribbon and made sure to measure it even for both curtains on the window.
Then I picked letters that had 2 flat edges to them. Originally, I wanted to do Jenny's J, but it made for a terrible tie back because I couldn't attach it to the hook well. The H and W worked the best, but I also used an E and an M and they worked too.
Then I looped the ribbon through the flat part of the lettter and stitched it to close the loop.
Lastly I repeated the process with a second letter on the other end of the ribbon. Both letters hang on the hook.

So a little trimming and a couple stitches later and voila! curtain tie backs!

So I'm sharing two of my successes because they make me proud of myself - a great feeling.  And I didn't even have to clean a bathroom to get there!

Pinterest Conquests: Kid Art

So I saw something on Pinterest the other day about taking your child's scribble art and turning it into actual living room art.  Notice how this Pinner cut out similar shapes to make up a flower patter of sorts and then probably Mod-Podged it onto a spraypainted canvas.

Good for this Pinner - I'm just not talented or patient enough to figure out how to do her pattern - the shapes are somewhat repetitive, but then they change size and how the heck did this woman find time to spraypaint a canvas and Mod-Podge all those pieces when she probably has a two year old screaming at her for more Fruit-Snacks.

Okay, maybe that's just me. Anyway I digress . . .



Well, I thought, I can certainly do a better job than that. Jenny has been doing all this Color Wonder painting and it's beautiful in places. I figured I could take Jenny's paintings and turn them into art.

I took down an old black, plastic frame that we'd bought to put my brother's poker photo in. (Sorry Aaron, it was a stealing bingo present and it just didn't fit in my bedroom. I still have it for Tim's man cave in the next house. Don't worry.)

Then I took a plain piece of black posterboard - very cheap.

I cut out pieces in a 3X3 square and arranged them on the black posterboard. I used double stick tape (not Mod-Podge) to attach them to the posterboard. I taped everything to the cheap white paper matte that comes with the plastic black frame and voila! art for my bedroom.

Now I'm fairly certain that someone is going to point out that the middle "tile" in the second row is off a bit.

I had a toddler demanding fruit snacks at that moment and didn't pay attention so much to where I was sticking down that particular piece.

Oh well. I still think it's beautiful. And it looks beautiful hanging in my bedroom. And no one knows that it's really just Jenny's ColorWonder paintings cut into pieces.

Love it!

The CUTEST little blind girl

Monday afternoon, Jenny and I ventured off to the eye doctor to pick up her new glasses. In my mind, I saw my little girl so appreciative of her new ability of see that she would gladly and constantly want to wear her new glasses. As nearly all things in my mind, it didn't go that way.

When we left the doctor's building, Jenny hands me the glasses and proceeds to inform me that she doesn't like her glasses; she doesn't want to wear them. I begin the plea-bargain.

1. "Jenny don't you want to be able to see all the neat things this world has to show you?" - Nope.
2. "Jenny, these glasses are very special and made just for you. Don't you want to wear them?" - Nope.
3. "We'll go get McDonald's and then go out to the airport if you wear your new glasses" -  Okay.

While I realize that bribery is not the best thing to teach my child, at this point I'm desperate. The glasses were expensive and I really don't care if she doesn't want to wear them, she's going to wear them!

Once they were on her face, it took her another two hours to get tired of them. I think part of her was overwhelmed by what she could now see. As we were watching the airplanes and the birds and the people at the airport overlook, Jenny was most amazed by the ground. I guess I never realized how little of the ground details she could see.



Jenny's first ride on the train
where she could actually see everything.

Next day, I put on my own glasses and (because the weather was beautiful) we headed to the zoo.

This was the first time Jenny had ever really
seen the polar bear underwater.

An AMAZING experience for a kid who has never really seen an elephant before, or the eagle, or the owl (no wonder she freaked out when the darn thing approached the glass the last time).



Jenny scolded this peacock for walking among the flowers.

Despite the crowd and the day cares and the church Bible camps who also took advantage of the beautiful weather, we had a really great day. My curious little girl had never before asked me so many questions about so many things. "What's that, Mom?" became her all-too-familiar phrase for the day.

It is truly amazing to see things through the eyes of this child. The wonder and the newness were incredibly humbling. Every now and again, I looked over my glasses at the exhibits and the animals and the people we were seeing and wondering how this little girl ever decided to love this place. (My eyesight is only slightly better than Jenny's). Some of the animals - the ones we saw up close, like the Bonobos (monkeys) and the insects - I could see fairly well. But the macaques and the gorillas, the manatees and the seals, the wolves and her beloved eagle . . . Without my glasses, I could barely make out their shapes, let alone the details.

I am both proud and in awe of my daughter's coping skills to this point. How in the world did she not fall down every five seconds? How did she manage to find her way in crowds of people? How could she possibly manage to do something as simple as watch an episode of SuperWhy and not wonder what they were talking about half the time?

Today, Jenny's third day with her glasses, she has accepted that she can see much better with them. There has been very little bribery today to get her to wear them. Soon I'll be able to go back to wearing my contacts again, I hope. I thank all of you who have seen Jenny with her glasses and have told her how beautiful she looks with them on. It's made a world of difference and I can only hope that Jenny will continue to know just how beautiful she is, both inside and out, with or without her glasses.

Old Chapter: The Baby Fairy is Boycotting my Uterus

I feel I must post-scriptus apologize for this particular chapter of the old book. It is a rant though, written after a very difficult school year. It's funny, now that I look back on it - still true, but I find it really funny that I actually wrote it all down like this.

Enjoy

Chapter Eleven:

The Baby Fairy is Boycotting My Uterus

- a tirade and rant from year six -

            At this moment in my life, everyone who can or who wants to be pregnant is pregnant. I’m not joking. I work with a bunch of teachers and we fall into the following categories:

o       Old enough to have grandchildren

o       Too old to have any more children

o       Have plenty of kids and are done with their family

o       Currently pregnant

o       Married and want no children yet or ever

o       Single and too young to be having children

At the current moment, I do not fall into any of these categories. I’m the only married woman who has been married over a year that wants to have children but can’t. At this point, I’m an outsider. I can’t hang with the single people, because I have a husband. I can’t talk pregnancy, because at this point, I haven’t been pregnant longer than a week. I can’t even talk children, because my brother and his wife haven’t let their girls call me Mom, in a really long while. Okay, they never let the girls call me Mom, but I can hope, right?

 The best part (I’m being facetious) is that the pregnancies are evenly spread around the departments, with no department having more than one pregnant parent, so there is perhaps an understanding as to why I’m not pregnant. It would throw off the whole cosmic balance or something. However, this pregnancy conspiracy goes even further.

            The Baby Fairy has visited nearly every single person I’ve come in contact with. Tim’s cousin, Christa, is pregnant with her third child and due in March. Now, why am I so upset by this you might ask? She’s living in a house that is falling apart around them, rent-free while her husband finishes his doctoral thesis in French poetry. They truly can’t afford a third child. In fact, I’m not sure how they afforded the first two children to begin with. So while this drunken little fairy has managed to bless every possible person I work with, this little creature has made sure to make me incredibly miserable. He has one of my students pregnant (I teach 9^th graders) and my little sister (who had an “oops” one night) expecting a child on Tim’s birthday. I swear the Baby Fairy is boycotting my uterus. If I ever get my hands on that little . . .  frickin’ . . . frackin’ . . . but I digress.

            Normally, I would have no problem with all of this estrogen floating around me. I’d see it as a good sign. Something must be in the water and I would drink enough water to catch whatever it was. However, things are different this time. I’m on hormones and back to having cycles again. Basically, my brain is one neurotic tangle of short circuiting wires. Plus, I can’t simply avoid the situation like I normally do. When pregnant women come toward me, I can’t turn and go the other way. I can’t avoid them in the hallways at school. I can’t even go to the bathroom without finding at least two of them in line in front of me. Even at home (with my little sister living next door) I can’t hide out with a book or bake cookies like crazy. She’s taking classes with my husband, so they talk and see each other constantly. There are just too many of them. This is where the trouble began. Too many hormones + too many pregnant people = Infertile Woman’s Anger Issues.

            There should be a chapter in that book, What to Expect When You’re Expecting, on proper etiquette for breaking the news to and dealing with friends or family who won’t be as thrilled about your pregnancy as you are. Maybe a good title for the chapter would be: How to keep your friends when you’re pregnant. The first part might go over the basic rules for how to deal with people (like me) who have been trying to conceive for nine years. A general idea for some of these words of wisdom might include the common sense stuff that seems to escape nearly all of the pregnant women that surround me. For example:

Ø                  If you know we have been struggling with this for nine years, don’t expect us to be able to hold up the fake excitement for more than three minutes. The best time to tell us is on the phone and quickly. Don’t drag on the conversation because after you tell us, we just want to pummel you into little, tiny pieces, smear ketchup on you and feed you to our dogs. Keep it simple and be quick about it.

Ø                  Don’t EVER use phrases like: “Be happy you’re not pregnant,” “You’ll understand one day,” “It’s a parent (or a pregnant) thing,” because in minds like ours, this gets translated into “Ha, ha, I’m pregnant and you’re not.”

Ø                  Make any supportive comments sincere and non-cliché. Don’t tell us it will happen when we least expect it or when we finally relax and take it easy. Don’t give us your “oh-so-wise” advice like, “do it with your hips elevated and let gravity take its course.” You have zero expertise in this kind of situation, no matter what has happened to your sister’s cousin’s roommate. The only thing you’re allowed to offer in the way of advice is a doctor’s name and maybe not even that.

Ø                  Don’t complain to us about anything related to your pregnancy. You will get sympathy while we’re talking to you and a voodoo doll made in your likeness later.  No matter what you’re going through, we would go through ten times as much to be able to get pregnant.

Ø                  Remember that you were a person before you got pregnant and that you once talked about things that had nothing to do with mid-wives and breast milk. We get really tired of hearing about it all the time. Find something new, please. Talk about food – it’s a good topic or shopping or the zoo – anything that isn’t connected to your pregnancy.

Ø                  Don’t blame things on being pregnant. If you dump cocktail sauce on your blouse, don’t tell us it’s because the baby is sucking away all your coordination skills. You were sloppy before you got pregnant. Along the same lines, don’t blame the baby for your moments of stupidity, your lack of memory (especially when we told you about our infertility only three months before you got pregnant) or your inability to move quickly. I weigh more than you and am carrying as much weight (if not more) in my stomach area as you are. I don’t blame my belly for my inability to move quickly. I’ve learned to adapt and you will too.

Ø                  Don’t get mad at us when we skip out on your baby shower. We want to be invited, but it is too difficult to even go into the baby section of Sears, let alone sit with other moms while they discuss the values of teaching your toddler sign language or the many uses of a snot sucker.

Ø                  Most of all, be supportive. When you are pregnant, we fight jealousy so powerful it could drive a normal person to violence. On the surface, we are friendly and polite, doing what has always been asked of us. Underneath, we can’t stand you. We are shallow, hateful, selfish people that don’t care how happy you are. You were given something so special and precious, while we sit in a dark corner feeling cheated and ignored. Remember that you were our friend, the one we went to when things went all pear-shaped. Remember that we still want you to understand us and listen to us. Remember that we still need you to help us through this.

With all these pregnant women around, it’s been extremely difficult keeping my mouth shut. I’m just exhausted doing the right thing all the time. I’m tired of acting like it doesn’t bother me. I’m tired of just sitting there pretending that I don’t hate them for what they are putting me through. I am certain that if I were pregnant, I wouldn’t feel so much irritation toward them. But I’m not, so I do.

In the end, I know I should be rejoicing and celebrating this great and wonderful experience. Deep down, there is a person inside of me that is doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Somewhere in the pit of my heart and the dark, silent recesses of my mind, there is someone who is happy for them. However, there is another part of me that is just hoping they get gas from hell, the kind that causes them to fart every time they takes a deep breath in front of anyone important. Knowing them, they’d just blame it on being pregnant and the other people would nod their head in understanding and laugh sympathetically.

Picking on all of the pregnant women, offering advice about everything and wishing hell-fire farts on pregnant people will hopefully anger the Baby Fairy enough to wish all of these things on me. Maybe if I piss him off enough, he’ll end his boycott of my uterus and let me be miserably pregnant for nine months. Ahhh . . . that would be a dream come true.

My Little Blind Girl

They say you should always be careful what you wish for because you might just get it. Well...I sheepishly reflect on the hopes and wishes I'd make for Jenny when I was pregnant with her, now because at least one of these is coming true.

When I was pregnant and knew we were having a girl, Tim and I talked about the type of child we didn't want her to become - one of those beautiful but self-centered little snobs that treated dorks like us with contempt and disdain. In all honestly, we wished for Jenny to be like us - dorks. While she would have to deal with the heartache of bullies and immature people, she would build a strength and a resilience that those "popular" kids just couldn't possibly have. Plus, no one dates dorks and therefore I wouldn't have to worry about teen pregnancy or drinking because she would be a dork. So we decided she would learn to play the tuba (Tim nixed that and said she should learn to play the drums, at least. Tom-boy was better than utter dork-hood), and she would be put into golf lessons, not dance and NEVER set foot outside the house in a cheerleading uniform unless it was Halloween.

In truth, I just didn't think I could handle having a popular child.

Jenny is beautiful and has the most gorgeous blue eyes I've seen in a long while. We're talking "Martina McBride" eyes. She has Tim's long eye lashes and a captivating smile. I knew we were doomed to have a popular child.

And while I lamented it, I learned to get used to it. Therapy and depression meds are expensive these days, so maybe my little girl would turn out like one of those well-balanced kids you hear about or read about. Maybe.

Then we got a comment from Jenny's preschool teacher that she was creepin' on her drawings at school. We started to notice how often we told Jenny to back away from the TV because "you're gonna burn your eyes out." After a short test from her pediatrician, we found out that Jenny was near-sighted. We confirmed it through Children's Hospital (a freak of scheduling made it possible for us to be seen before August) and ordered her glasses just today.

I'm sad because my little girl will be one of "those kids" who's had glasses since they were three. I'm sad because I wanted my little girl to have so few struggles with life that she could be happy. I'm sad because my little girl is now going to be a dork.

But I'm thankful, too. I'm thankful that she didn't inherit ALL of Tim's eye issues. I'm thankful that she will finally be able to see all the beauty of the world (especially the zoo, can't wait for that). And I'm thankful that I have her - dorkiness and all because of all that it took to get her here.

For now, I'm able to look forward to her glasses, which should be in, in about a week because they look totally cute on her. They are pink, a thin pink and they just make her face look so totally cute. She looks more intelligent and more precocious in them and I just love the way my little girl looks in them.

Oh and she's only a little more blind than I am - thank God.

So I suppose we should always be careful when we wish. My favorite musical has something about that and I'll close with a few lines so it'll get stuck in my head for the next few hours.

Careful the wish you make . . . wishes are children. Careful the path they take  . . . wishes comes true, not free . . .

Warning: TMI - Old Chapter: My friend the chilly speculum

During an especially cheeky time of my life, I wrote this chapter, dedicated to my least favorite part of being an infertility patient. I warn you, it's a bit brash and probably a tad bit vulgar in places, but I think it's funny, nonetheless.

My mother would get a kick of this if she read it.

Chapter Eight:

My Friend, the chilly Speculum

            The Speculum is the all-time, number-one, most awkward apparatus that a woman is ever subjected to. If there was ever an award for “Medical Devices the Makes You Grunt” I honestly believe that the Speculum would take first place. (At least, that is until my first rectal exam, I’m sure.) For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, or for those interested, highly involved husbands who have respected their wives’ privacy by not peeking during an exam, I feel it necessary to explain this medical marvel. To begin, a speculum is used to open the vaginal area wider than any woman has ever been opened before. At this point, gentlemen, don’t flatter yourself by thinking that a Speculum isn’t uncomfortable for your wife, simply because they should be used to you by now. I will be honest though, intercourse does help with the stretch issue. However, there is a cleanliness issue with intercourse the night before a visit to the OB/Gyn, but that is a story for another book.

Now we move on the appearance of the Speculum and the beginning of my ranting about this device and its use. Firstly, a Speculum looks like one of those garage sale items no one remembers what to do with. It is shaped (so they lovingly tell me) like a duck’s head, supposedly the most comfortable shape to shove up a woman’s birthing canal. I swear someone screwed up here, because that thing is not, I repeat not, nearly as comfortable as the wide assortment of other items that have been created for that particular opening. I’m not entirely clear who invented this device – as men would’ve known better and cast this device in their own image, while a woman would’ve understood how very tender that area of her body actually is. So for now, we will blame this on the monkeys.

While lying on the examining table, with my feet in stirrups, I feel the OB/Gyn ever so tenderly push this metal duck’s head (or plastic if you’re lucky) into my “area” and proceed to crank it open. His only words of encouragement or consolation, while he’s doing this: “you might feel some slight pressure, so just relax.” Yeah, right! I’m going to relax when you’re sticking a duck’s head up my canal and opening it wide enough to berth a small yacht! I don’t think so. Thus, my only response is a grunt.

            While this particular discomfort sets in, let me expound on my second award for this particular piece of engineering genius. The Speculum is, quite possibly, the coldest medical instrument I have ever felt. I don’t know who decided the material these things would be made of but it conducts cold like lightning down a metal rod. I suppose that the cold is supposed to numb your nether regions so that you don’t feel the “slight pressure” but instead of helping me relax, it just tenses me up more. Suddenly I go from being concerned about this “slight pressure” that’s coming from the duck head to “OH MY GOD, that’s cold!”

The shock of my first encounter with my friend, the chilly Speculum, left me with a feeling of pain and guilt. First, I felt pain that I hadn’t taken any Advil or Prozac or Morphine before meeting this invasive friend. The guilt I felt because I know that the Speculum, despite its status as the most unwanted instrument I’ve met so far, is only doing its job. Therefore, I grit my teeth and grunt through the pain each time the doctors whip that sucker out, while I try to understand that though I despise this “friend” of mine, he is indeed only trying to help the nice doctors figure out what is wrong with me.

Still, I have learned many a lesson from my friend, the chilly Speculum. I have learned to take Advil before every doctor’s appointment, no matter who I’m seeing. You never know when they might pull out my dear, chilly friend just so they can take a look under the hood. I have learned to ask the doctor to warm the Speculum up and though this helps with the initial shock of the cold, it still does not help me to relax. Most of all, however, I take with me a lesson learned and applicable to everyone everywhere. I have learned to double check any recommendations I may make about things that will affect the female gender, as a whole. Though it is too late to correct the mistake that led to the Speculum being shaped as a duck, I will never forget the importance of checking my work before turning it in; that and never letting anyone monkey around with my nether regions.

Ladies, may you always find your Speculums as comfortably seated in your nether regions as a duck’s head possibly can be. May there always be a doctor willing to warm your Speculum before shoving it into your birthing canal. Lastly, may you never have reason to be checked more than once a year.

Hormones, Hormones, Hormones

I'm going to cry in the next several minutes, just wait for it; it's going to happen.

There are many wonderful people in my life right now who have been so very supportive and so very wonderful to me over the many years it took for us to get Jenny and now again as I face the mood swings, weight gain, and overall irritation that come with the many, many, many hormones that flow through my body right now. (Wow - speaking of mood swings, did you see that one? Whoa!)

I want to first and foremost thank my wonderful husband. He puts up with me.
God bless him for simply shaking his head when I say something absolutely off the wall, like "Oh my God, what if I'm not a good mother to this one? What if I love Jenny more?" or "Are you going to still love me when I'm fat?" He smiles and shakes his head, knowing the answer to every one of my questions: Hormones.

I want to thank my mother and my mother-in-law who happily enjoy the time they get to spend with Jenny. This morning, my mother-in-law breezed into Jenny's room after the mini-meltdown we'd had over getting dressed and lifted Jenny's bad mood. It was one of those dazzling miracles that leave you feeling strangely better and somewhat lighter than you felt before.

And then there's my own mother. On the days I'm not apologizing to her for being such an ornery kid, I try to find some way to thank her for the things she's done for me. Somehow, she managed NOT to kill me as a child or send me to the orphanage. She managed my dramatic and often stubborn outbursts, coped with every injury and every tear. She didn't disown me when I decorated her living room carpet with mustard. And tomorrow . . . well, let's just say that I'm just amazed by her generosity.

See, I'm crying now.

I'm thankful for a husband who will run to Hyde Park to ease my mind over a medication that we somehow didn't get. And a doctor who will call back to check up on me. And a daughter who went to bed early tonight and without much fuss. And that husband of mine who is staying up until 11:30 tonight with me to watch me do another shot.

It is in the spirit of this gratitude that I'm going to stop blogging about this experience for little while. Maybe it's the hormones and maybe it's just me. Everything is too near right now to make heads or tails out of it. Soon, though I promise. Soon.

If all goes well, I'll have some really awesome stories to tell. And if it doesn't, then please pardon my words or lack thereof as I grieve, yet again.

In the meantime, I'll send out a few chapters from my old blog on infertility. Back then it was called a journal. I hope they'll be entertaining, informative and well, a decent distraction to fill the time before we can hopefully announce something good.

Twelve weeks is a very long time. Nine months, even longer.

Pray for us, please. Even with IVF, having a child is still a miracle.

God bless us all.

Call for Donations, anyone?

To my insurance company, having PCOS is like having leprosy - ain't nobody gonna touch you. In this case, it means that I have to fight tooth and nail for EVERYTHING.

For example, as part of my initial visits with the infertility doc, Dr. T told me I needed to have a pre-conception visit with a high risk OB. Basically, it's what all high risk parents should do before even starting to try to get pregnant - Au naturale or IVF. It's not an infertility visit.

My insurance company decided to throw it back at us to pay nearly $200 for this visit to an OB we decided we aren't even going to go with at this point because they were idiotic in how they coded it. For six weeks, I chased down the right person at C Hospital to talk to about the bill. I talked to the insurance company, I was routed back to the hospital, who routed me to the Arthritis Foundation for two weeks playing phone tag, only to find out that the Arthritis Foundation's billing is different from the Perinatal department (there's a shocker) and then through three other people before finally finding the right department and someone to help me. With a little finagling they sent it back to the insurance company who has decided they will cover all but about $30 worth.

The finances for covering IVF do not stop there.

The doctor's office charges us about $2,000 for the appointments, ultrasounds, blood work and procedures.
The hospital charges us around $5,000 for the use of their space, the procedural space, and use of their anesthesiologist.
And then there are the drugs. One of my drugs alone is $178 per vial and we've gone through 20 of them at this point. ONE drug. The rest of them equate to around $3,500 dollars.

Once I become pregnant, insurance should cover everything from that point on. They only toss it out if it's any part of infertility treatment. Go figure. All this because of Octo-Mom and John and Kate. Insurance companies don't want to cover those people who are abusing the system and the doctors who allow them to do so. So while we've scrimped and saved; begged and borrowed, they have a reality TV show on TLC. So not fair.

At this time, I'd like to make a plea for donations. You might even earn naming rights - not really, but hey, I like the name Obiwan for a boy; Mara Jade for a girl; so hey George Lucas, send me a check. (This second name choice totally pegs me as a Star Wars junkie and anyone who knows the name I'm talking about is a nerd too.) But if someone came along and whisked away our baby debt - and the debt connected to it - I would be incredibly grateful.

I guess I write about this because for most people, getting pregnant costs nothing, absolutely nothing. And I wonder sometimes if people realize the financial difficulty involved with infertility. There are so many other things I could do with $15,000 - not more important things, but other things.

I could
Put a down payment on a house
Put myself through two more years of college
Send Jenny to Catholic high school
Travel to English, Ireland, and Egypt - all on separate trips
Spend a month in Disney World
Buy a car - a fairly decent one
Remodel my bathroom, and probably my hall one too 'cause they're both small
Adopt domestically and still have about $2,000 left over

It took us nearly three years to "pay off" Jenny and I still have the letter from the credit card company telling us the account was paid in full. It's a reminder of how far we had to come, what we had to sacrifice to even have a chance at having a child. It reminds me just how precious my little girl really is and how much we really wanted her in our lives.

I stop and wonder if we'd have the "problem with kids these days" if all parents had to save up for a child and then spend the next three years paying off the loan. Would we have abuse and neglect if we had to work hard to get our children, had to spend so long contributing to the debt?

Tonight, I pray for all the mothers of adopted children, mothers of infertility babies, and those who spent the money but got nothing in return. For the parents, I pray that monetary blessings be poured upon you equal to the blessings you've received in your child. And for the empty-armed mothers, I pray for peace, a lessening of your grief, and hope for tomorrow.

God bless us all.

Pinterest Conquest #2

Spring Break brought Jenny and me a ton of time with nothing to do. The zoo was great and we had a blast, but it rained several times while we were off school. So I sought out Pinterest. YES!

The project looked like this:

and was originally pinned by a Pinterest follower like me. The project calls for using fabric and ModPodge to change the look of just the drawers in a dresser, chest of drawers, or whatever.

Well, I bought ModPodge and still haven't figured out how to use it yet.

So I went looking for contact paper with a really cool pattern instead.

I didn't find any that I really liked for Jenny's room, so I went with white.

It was really cheap and I got tons of it from Lowe's for 3 bucks.

Then I covered each drawer with stickers. They're easily removed if Jenny decides she'd like to have something other than princesses, fairies, and mermaids on her dresser.

Couple of things to remember or to know should you ever decide to do this one:
1. Make sure to wipe off all the surfaces. If you don't the paper won't stick right and you'll have to use clear tape to fix it.
2. Take your time, especially with the corners because they are a pain. There really isn't a right way to do them, so just figure it out as you go - cut and fold - that's about all the advice I can give you.
3. If you double layer the white paper (especially if the under-color is dark) you can create some really cool shadows.

So after making this wonderful change, I tried out the hardware I'd also purchased at Lowe's. Guess what? It didn't fit. The space between the two holes was custom and no standard handle was going to replace it. So Jenny picked out a knob and we put two in each drawer. It worked out great and I think it looks adorable.

Note to self: take old hardware to the store with you when you're going to replace it. This will save you a trip and time.

Pinterest Conquest #1

So I'm in love with Pinterest - I can't help it. So much knowledge in one place and I don't even have to go far to look for it. YES!

I decided to start blogging about the things we've done from Pinterest, which I find funny since most of the stuff on Pinterest comes from other people's blogs. Where possible I will include pictures. That way, you can repin, my comments on a pin that was repinned. Go figure.

The first thing we attempted was what was touted as "Melt in Your Mouth Chicken" from Food.com.

The recipe sounded absolutely simple: 4 Chicken Breasts, 1/2 c parmesan cheese,1 c mayo, 1 tsp garlic powder, 1 1/2 tsp seasoning salt 1/2 tsp pepper,spread mix over chicken breasts, bake at 375 45 mins

Now the 45 minutes seemed a bit excessive to me, so I simply cooked it until the meat thermometer said it was done. This is a mistake! Cook it the full 45 minutes and you'll be rewarded with the wonderful crispy parmesan cheese coating that is pictured above. The chicken will not dry out.

Also, there seemed to me to be a serious lack of salt in this dish, so I tossed a bit of salt on the chicken before covering them with the mayo-cheese-spice spread. This is also a mistake - there is plenty of salt in the parmesan cheese already, so don't add any more.

I made mashed potatoes to go along with this. This was a great idea, especially since I'd slightly over-salted the chicken (I still liked it, Tim ate it, but commented that I might leave it out next time).

First, this allowed a wonderful blanace to the parmesan - it's so strong that the mashed potatoes really complimented it. I don't recommend anything like mac & cheese or stuffing because of the flavor fight, nor do I suggest you serve this next to rice or pasta - the consistency of the chicken was so perfect that I think you'd have texture issues with rice or pasta.

Second, the leftovers of this chicken were phenomenal. I stored it with the potatoes on the bottom and the chicken on top. This turned out to be great - the potatoes pulled just the right amount of salt out of the chicken and made it so yummy I didn't let Tim have any of the leftovers.

I will be making this again.

Pinterest Success!

IVF - Old Memories

A good friend of mine recently miscarried and I'm suddenly thrown into seven years ago when it happened to us. I wasn't so public about my struggles with infertility back then and have only recently come to grips with what happened. Back then I was writing a book, called "9 years for 9 months" with the hopes of gaining perspective and a publisher. I stopped writing it shortly after the miscarriage and before we started the "Adoption Process" so I really never acheived either.

This is chapter 26

“And we all fall down”

            Every week, the infertility doctors showed us pictures of our growing baby, but remarked how slowly the child seemed to be progressing. Tim and I jokingly replied that our child was a procrastinator and would catch up with the class by next week. We didn’t worry when the doctors tossed around the words, “cautiously optimistic” because we knew they were just protecting themselves from a lawsuit. It was their disclaimer clause. Just in case something happened (and we knew it wouldn’t) they would be able to safely say that they did not guarantee or promise us anything. Tim and I got to the point that we threw around the word whenever anything wasn’t certain:

            “Will it rain tonight?”  “Well, we’re cautiously optimistic.”

            “Will you have school tomorrow?”  “Nope, I’m cautiously optimistic.”

            “Can we get fries with that?”  “Certainly, we’re cautiously optimistic.”

In our minds, our child was progressing with the few little bumps that were expected from two people who’d had nothing but rotten luck all their lives. We knew that nothing about this pregnancy would go perfectly right. We expected there to be some rough spots. We didn’t worry about them because we had faith in this miracle. This was our miracle baby and there was no possible way God would give us a pregnancy and then take it away. God didn’t do that kind of thing to good people like us.

            At eight weeks, we thought we had silenced our doctors’ fears. There was a heart beat. It was faint and tough to make out, but there was definitely a heartbeat. Tim saw it on the screen. It took a second or two for the doctor to confirm it and about five full minutes before I could actually see it. He was still “cautiously optimistic” because our child was supposed to be further along than it was. The heartbeat was supposed to be more pronounced and faster. Tim said she was a procrastinator, like her mother. I flicked him.

            At nine weeks, we met with Dr. T (not one of his colleagues, as before) to take a definitive look, once again. He used his best machine to look at the baby. He seemed quiet. And though the recent remodeling job done on his section of the hospital was supposed to make patients feel more at ease, the new paint and the beautiful hard wood felt strange, unfamiliar and discomforting. The worry had broken through the shield of faith I’d had.

            “The baby’s heart rate has slowed even more.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It’s not good. I had expected . . .”

            “What? What did you expect?”

            “Most of the time, these things declare themselves, one way or another. Your baby hasn’t done that yet.”

            “What did you expect when we came in today?”

            “I honestly didn’t expect to find a heartbeat.”

            “Well, there is one. Doesn’t that mean something?”

            “For some reason, there is a glitch in your baby’s development; something keeping it from developing further. I recommend we get a neo-natalogist to take a better look at it, to find out what’s going on.”

            “When?”

            “I’ll find out what their first available appointment is.”

Dr. T left the room and I started getting dizzy. My world was crashing down around me and there was nothing I could do about it. My heart was pitifully barren and ragged – like those pictures of towns and cities, homes and buildings after a nuclear bomb has decimated everything. I couldn’t cry, yet. I was stalled in the aftershock of losing everything I’d worked so hard for. Before I could turn to Tim, Dr. T returned. Neither of us had moved.

            Dr. T said the neo-natal clinic could see us on Tuesday at 2:00. Despite the fact that Tuesday was the first day back after the Labor Day weekend, I took it off. This was the most important thing in my life. It was the only thing in my life right now.

I still hadn’t gotten dressed, so Dr. T left Tim and me alone, so I could finish up. That was when the tears came. At first it was the little drops that pelt you on a hot summer day, leaving divots in the dry, dusty earth. But then the dam broke and out poured all of my despair, the aching sorrow for something that had completely filled my life and then suddenly been ripped from me. I felt stupid for having had any hope or faith. I felt angry – at Dr. T and at God.

If he’d known that this was going to happen, why didn’t he say anything? How could he let us be so happy without warning us that this might happen? Did he delight in putting us through this kind of pain? Or was it that failure of this sort is par for the course where he works? What kind of sick, twisted son of a bitch allows a couple like us to keep on hoping when there is no hope? Why didn’t his colleagues, his interns, his fellows, his medical students, nurses or even that stupid OB/Gyn say anything to us?

Oh wait . . . they did. They knew all along and we didn’t even listen to them. We were so stupid. All along they had said they were . . . and that we should be . . . “cautiously optimistic.”

            I must’ve cried forever. And there were no tissues in the room. I blew my nose in the rough, brown paper towels that every hospital clinic room has stocked and ready for messes. I was a mess.

            Dr. T talked to Tim about keeping an eye on me. He even asked Tim if I needed a prescription to help me sleep tonight or to keep me calm. He said to call if the baby declared anything over the weekend. He meant to call if I miscarried. Tim carried me home where we fell into our sorrows, let them wreak havoc on our hearts and then fell into a sorrow-shocked sleep. After all, I had to work the next day.

            Somehow, with the narrowest sliver of hope, I survived the following day at school. The kids were well behaved and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Frankly, I don’t remember a lot of it. A fog seemed to settle around me, protecting me from everything, keeping me from reacting to anything or anyone.

Thank God for the weekend. Not that I was talking to Him anymore except out of habit, I was at least relieved that the weekend had come.

Sunday came and we did not go to church. I could no longer convince myself that a miracle would come. That fantasy – the doctor had made a mistake – felt deflated. God did not care about his sheep. He didn’t care about the pain he’d inflicted upon us. He probably thought it was some great big joke – tease us, tantalize us with the hope of a child and then yank it away when we’re at the height of joy. I hated Him. I started to spot that evening.

Monday was Labor Day. I awoke from a broken sleep, shattered by dreams of babies in cribs I couldn’t see or reach, trying to find a bathroom while avoiding dangerous elevators and navigating staircases that went nowhere. I wasn’t feeling well; the spotting had become bleeding.

My miscarriage took only a little while to occur. First, there was pain, much like a punch to the stomach; the kind of pain that takes your breath away, doubles you over and begs you to show weakness by screaming. This lasted the morning, through the shower, fighting sharp spikes of pain, to the Advil that finally kicked in and on through breakfast. At lunch, when the Advil had worn off, the cramping started. Everything between my knees and my chest ached. My back burned with sudden fire, while my bones – hips, pelvis and spine – ached and throbbed like they were being twisted from the inside out. My intestines rebelled and I spent half an hour in the bathroom. Constipated diarrhea had plagued me before. But this . . . I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know I was going into miscarriage labor.

Nausea plagued me and I spent another half hour bent double over the toilet. Back and forth, I rocked myself – trying to settle my stomach which was trying to commit suicide both ways. Half the time I worried I was going to get sick while the other, I kept hoping I would. I was in agony, praying that the pain would end. Finally, with the smallest of pops, it was over.

I cleaned myself up and called Dr. T. As this was a holiday we got the fellow on call. She told us not to worry about the miscarriage unless I started profusely bleeding bright red. There was nothing more that could be done.

I called my boss, took the next few days off and then went to sleep. My family found out a little later that day. Tim told them while we were at Mom’s for dinner. I had decided that I really didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to go back to normal. I wanted to pretend that everything was done and already dealt with. Tim and I had already cried it out on Thursday, Friday and all day Saturday. I was done.

A few phone calls back and forth and one last appointment between the doctor and us revealed that my miscarriage was perfect. There were no remnants or leftover tissue. They told us to rest. I was defeated, done with it all; Tim wanted to discuss IVF. We rested.

Easter - This one's about Jenny

We began Easter yesterday, because the Easter Bunny visits grandmas early. Grandma came over for a ham and turkey dinner, mashed potatoes, broccoli casserole, Chinese Cabbage, rolls and an angel food cake we still haven't had room to get to yet. (My mom had 2 such cakes at her house, so a third seemed especially superfluous).

Easter Vigil was beautiful despite the foul-ups of the fourteen priests who were presiding over it. I'm still wondering if the baptisms count since they were never officially welcomed into the church, but oh well. Sarah D and I didn't mess up the litany, and I spent the night mostly baffled by the amazing talent I was surrounded by - I mean - wow, what voices! It made me feel very small indeed.

Three hours later, I got home and God Love Him Tim was still up. We immediately went to bed not evening thinking about setting out the Easter basket for the next day.

We woke up late, but still managed to get everyone together and Easter-ized for the day. We even had another "Only Jenny" moment. I thought my little girl couldn't possibly top the Christmas giggle she gave us when she got upset over Santa eating all the cookies, but she did.

In our living room, we have a window seat and this morning (after a mad dash), Jenny's easter basket was sitting on said window seat. Once she'd finished her morning yogurt, the conversation went thus:

Tim: Jenny, do you think the Easter Bunny has been here yet? Go check by the window and see.
Jenny: (walks over to the window seat, climbs up, looks right past her basket to the outside) Nope, I don't think so . . .
Me: Then what's that basket there, Jenny?
Jenny: (getting very excited at last) Oh I see...Wow!
My darling little girl . . . so very cute.



 Most of the time.

We survived church as a family today. No major melt-downs until we had to get into the car to come home. Someone didn't want to get into her seatbelt and was doing her best to fight it. (Hint: it wasn't me.) So a few minor issues - plus a decision we're never going to give Jenny apple juice again - and we were home (with a minor pit stop at Mc D's to help everyone get over the cranky- hungry syndrome that was causing all of us to be our unsweet selves.

An early nap for Jenny - church was exhausting - while I threw together some cheesy potatoes.

Then to grandma's for dinner - Jenny loved the ham, but didn't eat much else - so I saw, I'm sure grandma kept her fed - and Jenny had her first easter egg hunt. Thanks to Holly for helping her find her eggs.



Thanks also to Gabby for running around with Jenny and buring off all the sugar I'm fairly certain the Jenny ate today. She's sleeping quite well right now and hopefully will make it through her pre-school party tomorrow. That will be another adventure.

A game of Nertz (after an excrutiating game of euchre) and it was already time to go home.

Jenny had a great time and loved every moment of it. Happy Easter everyone!

Saline Sonahystogram, Trial Transfer, and My Bad Spelling

Warning: This post contains material not suitable for people who get squeamish - for any reason.

So, it's out now that we are in the process of getting pregnant again. Whaddya think?

In the meantime, I've managed to survive yet another preparatory procedure in the long line of what's coming.

Tuesday afternoon, I truck myself to the MOB building and wind my way around to find Dr. T's office. At this point, I'm still working on the stress of being late for the appointment because I had to go through the visitor lot three times to find a spot. When I left the appointment an hour later, there was hardly a person in the lot. Hmmmm . .. . interesting.

Anyway, so I'm mildly freaking out because I'm still reliving the biopsy that I'd had during the last visit; it went so swimmingly that I cried through most of it. This time, they warn me that I might want to take an Advil before I come because there could be some minor cramping associated with this procedure. Okay, at this point, I'm looking so stressed that the wonderful nurse doesn't take my blood pressure because she's sure, it'll be totally back to normal once the procedure is over. I agree with her and move on. I don't have blood pressure issues typically, but I must've looked just lovely at this point.

Anyway. . .

I'd told Tim that I didn't really need him at this one - I could do it on my own - but I'm so thankful for that man, I could run upstairs right now and just . . . well, I can't think of anything he'd really appreciate right now . . . oh wait ... . I'd run upstairs right now and bake oatmeal cookies for him . . . or do the dishes - that's about the equivalent of romance for most couples like us right now. My heart just melts when he does the dishes, or cooks, or cleans up after Jenny and her toys. Seriously, there's no sarcasm here - I love that stuff.

Anyway . . . I'm escorted to a room after I've weighed in and pregnancy tested (I bet that one came out negative) and I'm shown to my lovely table with my designer sheets. It is here that I procede to wait for years (okay, it was probably more like twenty minutes or something) while I mentally re-experience every pain I've ever felt in my entire life.

Then Tim steps up to bat and holds me and rubs my back and tells me that it's all going to be okay. Just a simple thing like his hand on my back I start to come back to normal. I tell him that I honestly don't remember this procedure from the last time - he assures me I've done this one before. I draw even more comfort from knowing that it must not be that bad if I really can't recall it. Plus, there are no chapters in my old book about this procedure, so it really must not have been that memorable. In case, we do this again - here it is, ME! That way you'll be less freaking out next time.

Anyway . . . by the time Dr. T, the nurse, the intern, and the fellow all make it into the room, I'm doing okay. . . mostly. I start talking and I don't really stop until everything is finished. This, I'm learning is the way to distract me from future procedures scaring the crud out of me. Remember this!

So let me hit the highlights for those of you who've never done this or are going to be doing this soon.

1. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. It's like remembering what the first day of cramps were like three months ago when I had my last set. It's strange to think, that if this thing works, I won't cycle again until sometime next year.

2. The trial transfer part was fairly easy. They put in a speculum (my very chilly friend) and then measure to the back edge of the uterus. It's kind of like a trial run the day before an interview to make sure you know where you're going on the important day - am I the only one who does that? It's a thin rubber catheter and I was chatting so much, I didn't really feel it.

3. The Saline Sonahystogram (pardon my atrocious spelling here) is a little different. They use a balloon to essentially seal off the uterus and then they watch (from the view of an internal ultrasound) what happens as they flood the uterus with 10ccs of saline. (It's about a teaspoon of fluid and just enough to make you feel like you wet yourself later.) They poke around while the uterus reacts (aka - cramps like crazy) and make sure everyone is still healthy and ready to carry a baby. They took pictures, so they'll be able to find everything when they go back later to sow the field. (I hope I didn't blink - I'd hate for them to have to re-take the pictures.)

4. My lovely nurse allows me to lie there for a few moments, to make sure I'm not going to pass out or something. Strangely, I'm doing okay. Don't get me wrong, it was not a pleasant experience, but in comparison to the biopsy, I'd do this 4 times over. (Biopsy was clear, by the way; not even any pre-cancer cells lurking down there.)

I go home get dinner and then go out with my neice to see The Hunger Games . By the time I get home and into bed, I'm not really even thinking about it.  Hmmm...

So from this point, we're in a holding pattern. A few more tests and then I'll start the medications  and my final cycle for this year.

Still having nightmares about delivery, though -

Okay, so here goes nothing...

Infertility: (noun)
A medical condition which diminishes self-esteem, your social life, as well as checking and savings accounts. Causes sudden urges to pee on sticks, cry, scream, and an inexplicable fear of pregnancy announcements. Treated by a medical specialist, who you pay to get you pregnant - this does not always work. Affects 1 in 10 couples.

And I might add, does not go away after one successful pregnancy.

Infertility is the gag, the duct tape, the silent shame that is borne by too many women and men. No one talks about it because the idea of not being able to do what teenage mothers do every other day is just outright wrong . . . . and embarassing.

And the worst of it is that it shouldn't be.

Jenny is a product of IVF because I couldn't produce eggs on my own. I have a condition called PCOS - polycystic ovarian syndrome that keeps my insulin resistance in full swing (this makes my diabetes harder to manage), pushes my weight up, and makes me prone to precancer cells in my uterus.

I have never talked about this to anyone who wasn't already going through this themselves. And I suppose I'm doing it now because I found someone else who was hiding it and not talking about it either. And I realized the sadness and the shame of it all is too difficult for one person to bear alone. And perhaps if we all started talking about it, then maybe we could stop hiding.

It is selfish of me to say this, but I love my daughter more than anyone else could possibly love their child. We spent ten very long years waiting for the opportunity to hear the words, "Mom" and "Dad" and while that in and of itself is significant, she is more precious to us because of everything we went through to get her.

Along the journey, people used to say to us "you'll understand when you have children of your own". I find it funny now to say something similar to those who cannot fathom the intense and often conflicting, irrational emotions that are connected to infertility. You would only understand if you'd been through what we'd been through.

So I guess this is my comeback tour - my "coming out" again. Since I cannot get pregnant the natural way, we are again going through the process of IVF and hope to be pregnant within the next several months. Unlike the last time, when I kept my journal to myself, kept the hardships and the pain, the laughter and the inside jokes to myself, I'm opening it up in this blog. I can only hope that my courage holds out and that I'll have more good things to share than bad this time. And in a year, that I'll be holding my daughter or son, knowing that the journey, though not as long and arduous as it was the last time will be marked with reverence and endurance.

And for those of you who follow this to hear about Jenny, don't worry. That child is still doing miraculous things everyday and I'll still be writing about her long after her silbing(s) is/are born.

The Pledge of Allegiance

Jenny despises getting her diaper changed and we are constantly trying to find ways around fighting her because of us usually ends up getting a heel to the throat and it's not pretty.

So I caught Jenny the other day reciting something that sounded like the Pledge and figured it was as good a distraction as any. Daddy was attempting to change a rather filty diaper (the product of carrots, her new passion cauliflower and a week's worth of strawberries because they were on sale at Kroger) and Jenny was fighting him tooth and nail.

So Jenny and I recited the Pledge of Allegiance and I mst say, I'm tickled by the mumbles again - much the same way I was when she was learning the LMNOP part of the alphabet song. She really is the cutest kid in existence - well, at least in this house right now anyway.

---

The afternoon naps on the weekend seem to be going away and I'm depressed about it. Selfish as it may be, I need those couple hours to rest and reboot my system so I can get through the rest of the day. Where does that child get the notion of giving up naps on weekends. We're going to have to fix this before the summer because Jenny doesn't do so well without a nap; and neither does her mother.

I'll keep you posted on the progress. Pray for us.

Looking back

I know it's been a while since I wrote about how Jenny has been doing and I will long regret the things I've forgotten already. Still I will do the best I can to keep track of the things my adorable little girl has done since the last post back in December.

It's so funny to think we only got rid of the Binky two months ago. It feels like it's been gone for a lot longer. Jenny never wanted it back and continued to tell everyone we saw - grandma, the bagger at Kroger, and poor Miss Sarah who had to hear about it for several weeks afterward. Looking back, I realize what a huge step this BinkyBeGone thing was. Now, she is speaking more clearly and more fluently than before. She's starting to express her emotions more (this being both a good thing and a frightening one) and I'm not certain (again) that I'll be ready for her to grow up so much.

I watch Kraig and Wyatt and think - my God, was Jenny ever that way? It feels like she's grown up over night and without any influence from us at all. I continuously wonder if what we were as parents at that point was good enough, right enough, to help Jenny become a good person.

There are things that I regret. I regret teaching her to throw tantrums. Yup, that was me. I regret not researching every nutritional thing out there and then figuring out how to make the best of it with her - I mean, how do I know if she's eating too much Chef Boyardee - do we really ever know? And am I stunting her growth or her IQ potential by feeding this poor child hotdogs 4 nights a week?

And then there are things I'm fairly certain that I'm doing right. I hold her and tell her how much I love her. I give her high-fives for being a good helper. I tell her how proud I am of the things she does. I put her in time-out when she's being mean to her doll baby or when she hits. I require that she at least gets fruit and a proteing at every meal. I've introduced her to carrot sticks - not baby carrots, but the sticks because they taste better. And I've given her structure - a framework she can count on - strong and as solid as possible.

The Songs I Can't Forget

We got colors, like 'em a lot. We got colors, like 'em a lot.

While we hunkered down in the bathroom in the center of our house, Jenny invented this song. Over and Over and Over and Over and Over, during the 30 minutes we hid from the tornado.

Oh God, thank you for giving my little girl a beautiful voice. Please help me get this song out of my head so I can sleep tonight. :)

It is truly amazing- the voice of my child. And she loves singing so much right now.

I get snippets from things she learns at preschool:

Jesus loves me and He loves you too. You will never have a friend so true. Come and see how much He cares for you. Jesus love me and He loves you too (and then the whole thing starts over again).

We are thankful (:|) For our food (:|) Each and ev-re-re-re da-ay. You will hear us sa-ay. Thank you God. Thank you God. Aaaaaaa-men! Let's eat.

And I get so tickled by how she's now getting her ABC's totally correct. I used to think it was so cute listening to her do the LMNOP part and how she mumbled through it before. It was amazing when I heard her do it all the way right - I cried (again) because I just can't believe how much she's really grown up.

And she's picking up songs like crazy. We now sing, You are My Sunshine and Puff the Magic Dragon - both songs that she can sing on her own, but both she's willing to share with me.

I know I sound like a broken record, but I'm astounded by her, every day. I thank God on a daily basis for answering my prayers so perfectly. It even makes me slightly paranoid that someone is going to come along and say - well, we made a mistake - she's not really your kid so we're going to have to give her back to her perfect parents who are a famous opera singer and a nuclear physicist (okay, it just took me three tries to spekk that work right).

And then I look at her when she's just getting up from her nap and how she tugs her magic blanket over her ear. And I think, nope this one is definitely mine.

And I hear her little twang in You are my Sunshine and I go, Yup - that's my little girl.

And then she makes up a song about her crayons and markers to help scare away the tornado while we're huddled in the bathroom alone because Daddy's staying safely off the road. And somehow that silly little song, sung at the tops of our lungs, makes it easier to deal with the fear I know we both have because we're trying to be brave during a storm and without Daddy.

We got colors, like 'em a lot. We got colors, like 'em a lot...