One Month Down, Two to Go

In sixty days (or 1,440 hours, but who’s counting?) I will turn 35 friggin’ years old. About a month ago, when I brought it to my husband’s attention that this monumental b-day was approaching, his response was, “Damn, baby! You’re old!” Since he’s only four months my junior, I’ll dismiss that comment as “cute” and let him live (plus, he IS an integral part of this here baby-making scheme).


Interestingly enough, today also corresponds with day 1 of something else I’ve been expecting. I think that’s an adequate explanation.

Nailed it

Clickety clack, clickety clack! “What’s that sound?” you may ask. My fingernails tapping away on the keyboard, of course. Since I began taking prenatal vitamins about one month ago I have noticed that my fingernails have grown longer and stronger than usual. Not Guinness-Book-of-World-Records-haven’t-cut-them-in-so-many-years-they’re-curling-under long, but definitely longer than they usually make it before peeling off.


Supposedly, it’s a myth that prenatal vitamins cause fingernail (or hair) growth. The elevated hormones that come with pregnancy, however, can cause the extra growth. I’m not sure I am totally sold on the myth theory, since my fingernails are obviously (at least to me) longer than normal. My dark roots are following suit, too, so I’ll be making a salon appointment when we get back to Charleston.

On an unrelated note, day 32, and still no shark week. What’s up with that?

No Tea Party For Me

To steal a quote from the White Rabbit, “I’m late; I’m late, for a very important date!” Today is day 31 of my 29-30 day cycle. In the spirit of masochism, I urinated on ye olde pregnancy test #2 just to confirm the accuracy of the one I took on Sunday. Ditto.


A watched pot never boils, right? In fact, a watched pot will boil-- it just seems to take forever. I guess that’s what’s happening here with the rebooting of the ovarian operating system.

Baby Dust

Two days ago I posted my blog on facebook, or “spacebook,” as my Uncle Kenneth (RIP) called it. The response it generated was quite overwhelming. Not only is everyone rooting for us to get knocked up with their comments (*like*), but my inbox was flooded with encouraging emails and testimonials from empathetic girlfriends who either are or have been in the same position (figuratively speaking).

Most of these commiserates are thirtysomethings like me, but few of them have openly shared their fertility challenges because of pain and isolation they have experienced. We spent the majority of our twenties curled up with our contraceptives of choice, fearing pregnancy like the black plague. The pervading assumption was that once we stopped the preventative maintenance our bellies would swell with offspring. We held friends and acquaintances who cried in our arms because of accidents, which I now prefer to call “surprises.” We took baskets of baby paraphernalia to showers for our young married friends and shuddered at the thought of being responsible for anything more than ourselves (and possibly our pets).

Then we grew up, got married, planned families, only to discover that it wasn’t as easy as we once thought. For me, writing this blog is almost cathartic. I take pleasure in exploring the nontraditional, finding humor in the midst of disappointment and shocking and awing my friends and family. It’s pleasing to think that others might find some morsel of comfort within these lines.

Thanks to those of you who have shared your tips and stories with me, from IVF to adoptions to surrogacy (and all the positions in between). And to those of you who aren’t quite there yet, baby dust!

Mean Girls

This is the fertility vase of the Ndebele Tribe!

Does that mean anything to you?

Big Fat Negative

Since I was a little girl, it has been virtually impossible for me to wait for a surprise. Before every Christmas I would wait until my mom and dad were busy, quietly sneak into the living room, carefully unwrap the ends of my presents and peek inside to see what I would be getting. Eventually, my mother must have wised up to this, because one year she stopped putting names on the gift tags, so the gifts remained a mystery until the big day. Foiled again!

On the eve of game day for the Crimson Tide, in the spirit of spoiling surprises (and not being able to play the aforementioned waiting game), we broke down and invested in Clear Blue Easy. The result? As you probably guessed by the title of this post, it was a BFN (big “fat” negative, y’all). At first, I was disappointed and frowny, but then we went to Pei Wei and my pre-dinner fortune cookie opined, “You are a lover of words, someday you should write a book.”

I have since decided to embrace this opportunity to continue my fantabulously hysterical blog with hopes of one day turning it into a best seller (Thank you, Confucius). Anyway, how else would I spend the remainder of my summer?!?

Better luck next time! For now, its T minus 9 months and holding.

Waiting Game

Just in case you were wondering (and I’m sure you were), today is day 27 of my 29-30 day cycle. A mountainous pimple making its debut on my right cheek and my sore ta-tas are probably glaring signs that Aunt Flo is on her way. Plus, I was a teensy bit short tempered last night when I shouted a less than kind suggestion (which may or may not have included a particularly offensive expletive) to our loud, intoxicated neighbors through the hotel wall. (Note to the Westin Riverwalk: Although your beds are extremely comfortable and your rooms impeccably decorated, your paper thin walls have driven a colossal wedge between us. Take a good look at this blemished face, as it will be your last! ). Nevertheless, I am still holding out hope that there might be a bun in this oven.

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see…