The Eye's Have It

I like my eyes. They are one of my more fetching features. They shift in color from a vivid green to a turquoise blue depending on my mood and what color I’m wearing. I like to dress up my eyes with different shades of eye shadow to enhance one shade or the other. In my family, everyone has some hint of blue in their eyes. My brother has the most striking deep blue eyes surrounded by thick, black eye lashes. My dad, similar to my grandfather, has pale blue eyes. My mom’s eyes tend to be more on the gray-blue side and my sister’s favor the gray hue even more. My mom is the only one besides me to have shades of green in her eye color, although mine are more green than hers. All three of my children have brown eyes. Sometimes it still makes me sad to know when I look at my children I won’t see my own eyes reflected back at me. But, then again, even biology couldn’t have guaranteed me that.

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Reaching Critical Mass

We have reached critical mass. Things with Chica Marie have spiraled out of control and it has been awful. I feel sick and drained and angry. I feel like a huge failure. I feel broken and useless. I am tired deep into my bones. All the small self-care things I do are no longer helping me, they just make me long for the peace and tranquility that isn’t possible with Chica Marie. I dread picking her up at daycare and having to hear what she has done today. I don’t like spending time with her because it almost always devolves into a fight. My reserves are beyond empty, I have nothing left to give. Her current mobile therapist has found a new TSS worker and it will mean changing agencies but I just don’t have the energy to fathom there’s any hope. I don’t have the emotional fortitude to go through this again. My world view is skewed to doom and gloom at the moment. My case worker is not understanding how beyond discouraged I am right now. She still has hope that the new therapist and new TSS worker will perform some miracle and things will be all honky-dory again. Even at best our relationship was tenuous. My patience is nearly gone. And, I am so focused on this one child and so emotionally spent with her that I have little to give the boys. I crave time alone with the boys so I can enjoy them without Chica Marie distracting me and derailing the good moments. If the two little ones were not tied together (keeping siblings together) I would probably be writing up my 30 days’ notice because I feel I have nothing left to give this little girl. Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that….

Facebook Faux Pas

This past weekend was busy. It was a three-day weekend for me because I had off on President’s Day and the weather was glorious with very un-February-like temperatures. A few weeks ago I had been contacted by the little one’s grandmother asking to see the kids. She has not seen them since early November. I kept thinking she would contact me for the girls birthday’s in December or for the holidays, but nothing. I worried she was upset because I expressed concern and consternation about the last visit with her taking the little ones to see older siblings with only a texted picture to notify me. I was glad she contacted me and readily agreed to the date chosen. We met at Chuck E Cheese and she had Mini Momma and two cousins we’ve met before along. She and I sat and talked about things and it was nice, although I think I must be a conundrum to her. I expressed how I hoped the older siblings would reach out to the younger ones when they get older and how I hoped to keep a connection going with her so she might answer questions. I agreed to allow the little ones to sleep over at her place this Friday, although to be quite honest I’m a bundle of nerves about it. I know there isn’t as much supervision as I’d like there to be. I can’t be sure another visit with older siblings won’t occur and I doubt I’d even be made aware of it. I worry about Love Bug being upset at night because it’s been a very long time since he slept anywhere but at home. I’m trying to find some Zen about this whole deal and failing miserably. The only good thing is I will be at my Bible study and not sitting at home fretting.

 

During our time together, Grandma was fiddling with her phone (we both were) and mentioned having issues with Facebook. She somehow got into some beta mode and couldn’t get back out. Later that day I text her thanking her for the pictures of the kids and their cousins and for our nice afternoon. I also suggested she find me and friend me on Facebook. I have a lot of Primero’s family as friends on Facebook but zero for the little ones. I thought it would be a nice way to keep up with one another, even though I can’t post pictures of the kids sometimes I get creative and post their backs or a fuzzy shot of them doing something. Thus far, no friend request from Grandma. Primero suggested I just friend her. But, I gave her the option and she hasn’t taken me up on the offer, so it seems rude to insist. Maybe she doesn’t want that sort of relationship. Maybe she hasn’t figured out the whole beta thing yet. Maybe she feels that’s an intrusion. Maybe she wants to hide things. Maybe I over-think this way too much! Still, I had been thinking a long time about friending her on Facebook because, being the Facebook stalker I am, I have looked her up. I thought I was paving the way to more openness but instead I’m still waiting in limbo. Sigh.

Memory Lane

It’s not often I let myself take a trip down memory lane, but every now and again I look back from where I was to where I am now. This time of year it seems I slip into that contemplative mode, probably because it is the anniversary of an ending and new beginning. I still feel the sting of things, but the searing pain has been dulled by the passing of time; five years to be exact. When I allow myself to look back and ponder the “what if” scenarios, trip down the paths not followed, I always seem to end up at the same conclusion – if things had not gone how they did I would not have the children and family I have now. I cannot have both, it is not a possible outcome. Had Flaco not left me and we were still together we might have adopted a child, but it would not be my son Primero and would most likely not be my babies Love Bug and Chica Marie. Flaco was opposed to transracial adoption and I certainly couldn’t see him accepting a teenage boy as his son. I think the only unexplored option that I still sometimes wish I could have taken was for more extensive infertility treatments. We really couldn’t afford anything beyond testing and a few rounds of Clomid. Could I have gotten pregnant with an IUI or IVF? I don’t think I will ever know that answer. And, even this path ends with the realization that I wouldn’t be where I am right now and I would most likely be married to a man I had grown to despise as a philandering, narcissistic, Neanderthal who viewed child-rearing as a woman’s job. Flaco and his new mate had a baby last month. I know this because I’m a glutton for punishment and I went searching for trouble on Facebook. But, as we all know, Facebook images are not the whole picture and a small snapshot view into someone’s life is not nearly the whole truth. Anyone can pretend to be happy on Facebook.

 

A friend and I were discussing our current love-less love lives and I made some comment regarding sadness over never knowing what it would feel like to be pregnant. She assured me I still had time, I wasn’t yet past the point of fertility at 35 as she reminded me her first pregnancy (and subsequent miscarriage) were at age 36. While I do mourn not knowing, and most likely never knowing, the feeling of growing a baby inside me, I honestly can say even if I met Mr. Right tomorrow I wouldn’t return to infertility treatments. If, by some miracle, I got pregnant I would be ecstatic, but I wouldn’t pump my body full of hormones and pursue expensive treatments until our wallets or my body gave out. I love my non-biological children and I feel I would be doing them a disservice if I so heartily pursued infertility treatments. Not only would I be a hormonal mess, but I would also not be present for them and that’s just not ok. My children are so wanted just the way they are, I would never want them to think otherwise or feel that somehow a biological child is more important to me. So, while I agree with my friend, I am not technically beyond the realm when it comes to biological procreation, I am certainly beyond infertility treatments. Could a doctor swirl together my eggs and his sperm and make me pregnant? I won’t ever know the answer to that question and I’ve become rather ok with that.    

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Where Do You See Yourself in 5 Years

It has been five years since my ex packed up and left, breaking our marriage and shredding my heart. I try not to dwell on things, but for some reason this year it’s getting to me. Maybe it’s because I’m five years older now and still single and still wishing I weren’t. Maybe it’s the frustrations with trying to meet men who have no understanding of infertility and question why I don’t want “my own” children or profess they can make that happen by their sheer manliness. Maybe it’s because he recently had a baby and while I wish I could tell you I’m the bigger person, there is a part of me who doesn’t think it’s fair he should get the happy ending after all he put me through. Maybe it’s because my sweet Primero is struggling with personal, semi-romantic relationships right now too. Maybe it’s the recent rash of pregnancies and births proliferating my Facebook page that have me in a funk. I don’t know. What I do know is that this too shall pass and while I might feel all doom and gloom right now, I don’t have a crystal ball and I don’t know how this next year will pan out.

 

I’m pushing myself to talk to and meet men I found via an online dating app. I’m trying to be more open. I met someone on Saturday for drinks and we had a nice time. I’m trying to not play the “where is this going” game and just staying in the moment right now. He invited me to the movies this weekend. Oddly enough, while we were out two women came and sat next to him. It turned out I knew them, one was a friend of mine and her friend who I’ve met several times. They were out on the prowl, both having complicated, semi-terminated marriages. They invited me along to a different bar and I ended up staying out to almost 3 am – something I have never done with the children at home (thankfully, my sweet Primero had no trouble staying home with the sleeping little ones). I had a nice time, except at one point there was a guy who seemed to be into both me and one of my friends. When my friend asked him, at the end of the night, to choose which one he preferred he chose the other woman. And, even though I didn’t want to start anything with him, it made me sad to be the unchosen. The very best part of the night was the ending, when I was cuddling in bed with Love Bug, who woke up as soon as I got home. We were facing one another, our heads on the same pillow when Love Bug whispered in his sweet sleepy baby voice, “Good night Mommy.” He then went on to say good-night to his sister, Primero and all four cats (he forgot the dog but I think she has since forgiven him). He did this while cupping his chubby little hand at the back of my head and stroking my hair and cheek, like I do to him when he’s falling asleep. With his forehead pressed to mine and our noses touching, he whispered, “Good night Mommy,” one last time before I drifted off to sleep.

Life-long Friend

I don’t know how my mom and aunt maintained their close friendship while my mom became a mom three times over and my aunt was never able to have children. When I first outted myself to my mom, letting her know we had been trying and were having trouble, she mentioned how hard it was to tell her best friend (who I’ve always called my aunt) not once, not twice, but three times she was having a baby and my aunt was still not. My aunt was there when all three of us were born because she worked as a nurse in Labor and Delivery until about 7-8 years ago. Not long after my mom had a hysterectomy, my aunt also needed one and my mom mentioned how hard that was for her. When my aunt got divorced right around the same time I did, my mom said my aunt regretted never adopting a child (her husband was very opposed) and resented her husband for never considering it. My aunt is very special to me and because she now works in a pediatric doctor’s office, I frequently call her with child illness questions or concerns. I know that she has also always been involved in her niece’s lives (through her husband’s brother, she is an only child) and I think she also offers counsel to them with their little ones. I guess it is a testament to their relationship that it survived the years of infertility and babies to be as strong as ever now as they are in their 60’s (shh, don’t tell them I said that!).


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Why Bother

I should have kept my mouth shut. I knew better. I should have kept scrolling and moved on with my life. But, I didn’t. After 50,000 baby-related posts I hit my breaking point and I just had to comment. My cousin’s wife (who is somewhat attention-seeking) posted how she was anxious to reach the second trimester so she wouldn’t feel so sick anymore. I commented, “I would give anything to feel sick from pregnancy…” A few other people commented about how they felt during their various trimesters of pregnancy and she commented on each of their comments but ignored to glossed over mine. Because, despite her extreme empathy for all animal-kind (she’s a vegan), trying to graciously understand how lucky she is to be complaining about pregnancy symptoms is simply not in her wheelhouse. I’m feeling better about getting sick for her baby-shower….

Two Different Worlds

Most of the time I try not to think about infertility. Most of the time it doesn’t work. I posted about my cousin and his wife newly expecting. It seems all she can post is baby related and last night I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram when a new post by her sucker punched me in the gut. It was some cutesy thing with how many weeks, how mommy’s feeling, cravings, an ultrasound picture and size of the fetus. Vomit. I switched to Facebook, thinking I’d need to hide her there only to find a friend revealing an ultrasound picture of her second grandchild claiming they were having a boy. I broke out in a cold sweat but before I could get off Facebook a post by a different friends daughter stating how proud her and the baby were of “daddy” who is in the National Guard and headed off to some 15 day deployment and I was DONE. All these young people procreating just turned my stomach into knots. I wish it weren’t that way, I wish I didn’t feel like throwing up when I come across these things, but I do. And I try to avoid them as much as I can. Because I don’t live in that world. I live in the other world, the one where an infertile couple hoping to adopt is more stocked and ready for their placement than anyone in the history of adoption. I live in the world where an infertile couple worries about bothering their newly pregnant surrogate with too many text messages and is coming to grips with the fact that a different woman is carrying their child. I live in the world where a couple who are childless not by choice find themselves being asked to explain their childlessness or have their childless situation likened to the worst possible situation. I live in the world where my last thought before bed last night was how grateful I am for my little family and how much I love us coupled with the thought that I still wish I could know what it feels like to be pregnant and how I wish I wasn’t doing this alone. I don’t begrudge the expecting couples their happiness, I am happy for them even if seeing their good fortune makes me sad for me. Sometimes I wish there was some grace in understanding not everyone is so lucky, but I suppose they’d have to live that to get it and well no one in the trenches wishes anyone else join them here. Life isn’t fair and not everyone gets what they want. I’ve come a long way on my journey to accept the things in my life that I cannot change. It’s just sometimes it still stings.  

Too Pretty to Get in Trouble

I now have a new problem. The Vice Principal at my daughter’s school thinks she is too pretty to get into trouble. I had heard our former TSS worker mention he had said something like this to her previously, citing her being “too cute” as a reason he couldn’t lay down the law with her during a previous issue earlier in the school year. When I met with the Vice Principal the day after Chica Marie was suspended from school I wanted him to be stern with her, to take what happened seriously so she would too. Instead, he was mild, meek even and he said to my child, “You are too smart and too pretty to be getting into trouble.” I’m sorry, what? Yes, Chica Marie is adorable with cherub cheeks, long black lashes, and a heart-melting smile, BUT her appearance has no bearing on her behaviors whatsoever. And, even worse, coming from an adult male this is teaching my young, impressionable daughter that her looks mean something and since she is good-looking, she might be able to get away with something a lesser attractive female could not. It ties her looks into things that have no correlation and twists her outward appearance into something more worthy than her inner beauty. No, just no. Her looks should never have been brought into the equation. Would the Vice Principal tell a male student he was too cute to get in trouble? If he sat on a jury would he judge the defendant based on their looks or the evidence of their actions. Chica Marie punched one classmate and scratched another – this is not cute behavior, it was not pretty. After Chica Marie was sent off to class and the VP asked to speak to me and her mobile therapist alone, he confessed to struggling with meting out discipline to the younger students in the school. He expressed suspensions were his least favorite part of his job. I get that, I do, but what he said smacks of chauvinism and sexism and I don’t want my daughter putting her worth in her looks. In my house, she isn’t too cute to get into trouble and neither is her equally adorable brother. I now have to work to help her unlearn what he taught her because her looks are only a fraction of who she is and I don’t want her to believe she is too pretty to get into trouble.   

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.