Saturday, September 28, 2013

The Time I Put a Hex on a Check-Out Girl

I would like to interrupt my previously promised series on infertility to bring you a quick rant. You will understand why once you read it.

Dear Harris Teeter Check-Out Girl,

I was actually enjoying my trip to the grocery store alone. In my world, that is called a vacation. Nevermind it was eight o'clock at night, I was on my second grocery store, and it was the end of a long day of dealing with a Honey Badger and her many, many idiosyncrasies. I was able to focus and shop and get in and out in 25 minutes. My little vacation. And you ruined it. 

You started off kind, when you told me you weren't filling the bags too full, so I could carry them easily. I even forgave you quickly for calling me "mama." But then you went and said what you said. Let me refresh your memory. "You sure you don't want any help? You are about to have that baby any day now." One would think after I laughed and said, "Nope, not until December," you would have the sense to shut. your. mouth. But you didn't. You grabbed your chest in horror and said, "OH. MY. GOD. NO. WAY. You sure? You look like you should be having that baby now." Well, I am not, though it would serve you right if I labored right here on your scanner, you twit.

So you should know that as I waddled out of the Teeter, I silently cursed you. I sent powerful juju your way so that when you get pregnant, your ankles swell. And your nose gets fat. I hope you get hemorrhoids, and then make the mistake of hitting 'images' when you google how to treat them. I hope your baby is happy and healthy and really huge. With a huge head. And that after he or she is born you pee your pants every time you sneeze or laugh or breathe heavy. I pray that you will be extremely fertile and that you easily get pregnant so that you can experience a cute girl 15 years your junior and quite a few pounds smaller than you tell you that you look like you should be crowning. Then, maybe you will remember this day. When you were so rude to a tired pregnant lady who just wanted to get to her car and open the cookies she just bought.

I am normally not a mean vindictive person. I feel a little bad for wishing such things on you, child who knew no better. But damn. Read some body language, sister. This is just another teachable moment for all. Don't ever infer that you know someone's due date unless you see her water break. And even if you think she may have miscalculated her due date, there is no need for you to comment on it. No one cares what you think. Especially the person carrying the baby. 

Your's truly,
Thea, The Pregnant Lady you insulted last night at checkout #8 who couldn't even enjoy that she saved $18.49 with her VIC card because she was feeling like such a blimp.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

This Post Brought to You by Science.

I have talked a wee bit about the fact that we did IVF to get pregnant with He who is currently incubating. I am very upfront about our dance with the fertility gods. It was a long and arduous process and I love to talk to anyone and everyone about it. I have even been know to bring it up to people I have just met. Seriously. I told another mom within 5 minutes of our meeting. Overshare? Possibly. But I like to see it as a way to say, "I am totally cool with my jacked reproduction system and I welcome the chance to challenge the taboo of discussing infertility." Toe-may-toe/Toe-mah-toe. 

On Tuesday morning I got a text from my bestie that they were having an IVF segment on the Today Show right then. (She texts me when there is something on I may want to see because she knows I am so not watching anything remotely like news, and because she is awesome. You would be wise to get you a BFF like that, people.) We turned off Mickey and turned on Today, and there they were, doing the first live IVF egg retrieval ever in the history of baby making. Thank you times a million, Jenn. Not since I saw Look Who's Talking have I been so educated on the science of baby making. It was amazeballs to watch, since of course I was sawing logs during my own egg retrieval. And then, right there, they shot the sperm into the egg. Conception on national television. Yay Science! On Friday they will do this girl's transfer of eggs back into the uterus...I am assuming they will show what they can of that too. 

Ah-maze-ing. I love that they are doing this. The world needs to see this side of IVF. What actually happens. Hear this couple's story. Understand what they are scared about and what they are excited about and how hopeful they are. Grasp the gravity of the decision to try IVF, mostly because of the cost aspect. Not to mention the fear of it not working. These are all things we struggled with. And these are all things I like to share with other people. 

It pains me to hear of women who have struggled with infertility and not had anyone to talk to about it. So I am going to take the next few posts to discuss different aspects of what we have gone through. Some happy, some sad, some educational (or at least my attempt at education) , and all very personal. I believe in being transparent. I believe in sharing anything I can about my own story to help other people with their journey. I believe in the idea that if we can create a community that allows us to talk about our infertility, it will help us, our spouses, and future generations of daughters who may struggle.

Feel free to ask me a question publicly or privately. I will do my best to answer it. Please share this with anyone you know that is traveling a similar path. It is amazing how cathartic it is to know you are not alone. 

This post brought to you by Science. (and my need to Overshare.)

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Marriage Tester #736: Saturday at IKEA

We love to do what I think of as "marriage testers." You know, things that may cause you to become so frustrated with each other that you question the very vows you took while plotting the other's death. Like picking out a car together when you are 11 months pregnant, or moving with a six month old, or repainting the outside of the house ourselves, or reorganizing the linen closet together. Still not divorced and no one is dead, so I guess we will just keep doing these things 'til someone cracks. We completed our latest marriage tester yesterday--IKEA on a Saturday. As did 1,562,987 other people. 

Have you been to IKEA? HAVE YOU? It is awesome. And insane. And awesomely insane. Especially on a Saturday. So many good deals. So many people. So much panicked buying in the air. I love it. Hubs though, Hubs finds it stressful. Throw in the Honey Badger, and it is a trip down the rabbit hole. The good news is this trip we had a unifying mission. Keeping the child from killing IKEA. I feel it really brought us together and kept us from focusing on our disagreements.  Instead of fighting about which toy bin was better and if we wanted the square or the rectangle Lack coffee table, we were all, "I will hold her in time out while you go grab the pillows to replace the ones the dog peed on." Go Team.

Every third person at IKEA has a child with them under age 5. Why is this important? Because it raises the decibel level by 7000%. Also, when your kid is screaming, it doesn't phase people. They get it. Kids lose their mind in there. It actually pleased me to hear other people's kids sobbing. It made me feel like I wasn't alone in the fight for sanity.

Every fourth person in IKEA is a pregnant woman. Not just a little pregnant. Very pregnant. And they are all followed by husbands pushing carts filled with throw pillows and vases and frames and spice racks with looks of paralyzing fear on their faces. Because they know if they ask why they are looking at shoe organizers instead of crib sheets they may get nut punched. Something about being pregnant obviously makes one panic about the disarray of their home. IKEA is making nesting a gazillion dollar business. They lure us there with cribs and highchairs and we leave with $500 worth of house flair. And a vague idea of what we want in the nursery. And plans in place to come back in two weeks to buy that stuff. Well played, IKEA.

When you take a 3 year old to IKEA they are going to lose their schmidt. Probably sooner rather than later. Here is the scenario that leads to the breakdown: arrive, pull them out of the car and rouse them up from their 35 min power nap, fill them with french fries and chocolate milk. Then turn them loose on a playground of brightly colored furniture and things to touch. LadyB is in heaven at IKEA. Because she is a "big girl" she doesn't want to ride in the cart. Translation--she needs to climb on every couch, play on every fake laptop, and turn off every lamp. (Side note---there are a ton of lamps at IKEA.) At one point I turned around in the bedroom area to find she had wiggled between a nice young couple looking at a bed and climbed up under the covers. While they were inspecting the duvet. I caught the girl giving the guy the look that said, "our kids will never be this out of control." I wanted to slap her and scream, "They will. Maybe even worse. They may pee in the IKEA bed. And then you will understand why I look so tired." I literally drug Her Highness out of that bed, all 33 lbs of dead weight, because she was "asleep" while those two fools stared, wondering where they kept the box of 7000 IKEA condoms for $3. I tried to trick her into the cart with Skittles. She actually said, "no thank you Mother. I am going to walk." Then after 72 warnings to stop running/screaming/tripping old people who were walking against the arrows because they are lost and we don't do guided shopping in 'Merica, I shoved her in the cart while she sobbed and screamed. And then gave her the Skittles if she promised to just be quiet. That worked until the Skittles ran out. Then it was back to begging to be released from cart prison. Loudly on repeat. 

By the time we were finished I was afraid I was going to go into stress induced preterm labor. Then we had to stand in line for almost 30 minutes. The couple in front of us bought $2200 worth of stuff. (I lurked to see the total because they had three carts worth). At one point sister put 6 packs of 36 tea lights on the conveyor belt. I can't even begin to imagine what one does with 126 multicolored candles. But IKEA does that to a person. You get in there and you totally redecorate your house in 2 hours. Of course you have to have 126 candles.

The best part is we are going back next month to actually purchase the baby stuff we just looked at yesterday. We may even go back twice. I may just plan to give birth there, right in between the toilet brushes and the wicker rocking chairs with no legs that everyone wants and sits in, but no one actually buys. Or by the Swedish meatballs and soft serve, just in case I get hungry. I would leave with a baby in a moses basket made from a 59 cent blue tarp bag and a new duvet cover and three chocolate bars for a dollar. Now that would be an amazeballs marriage test. 


Type A spouses are super annoying until it
is time to pack the car.
Then they are money.

Friday, September 6, 2013

The Epidemic Effecting Men Everywhere

I have terrible news. I have recently diagnosed my husband with a devastating illness. I believe it is a malady effecting men everywhere. Groceryagnosia, commonly known as Food Blindness. 

For years now I have noticed that when Hubs opens the pantry and refrigerator he is unable to see the food sitting right in front of his face. The issue does not seem to effect his speech, especially his ability to ask questions, such as "Where is the Milk?" For so long it made no sense to me. How can he not see the items sitting on the shelves? I am not just talking about the things in the drawers. That would mean actually opening them to look inside. Not even the food in tupperware. Cause its probably old and/or moldy anyway. I am talking about the food on the shelves and the door. Food that is labeled. By professionals. Then last week we were watching the show Perception and the perp had Prosopagnosia, also know as face blindness. According to the popular scientific medical website Wikipedia, it "is a disorder of face perception where the ability to recognize faces is impaired, while other aspects of visual processing (e.g., object discrimination and intellectual functioning (e.g., decision making) remain intact." The next day, Hubs was standing at the refrigerator, staring blankly, and he asked where something was and it hit me. He cannot physically see what is in the fridge. Same for the pantry. He is sick. With Food Blindness. It's. Not. His. Fault. Even though the jelly was RIGHT. THERE. Poor thing couldn't see it.

I am working to understand his illness. I try not to get angry when he asks where the peanut butter is, even though it has a bright red lid and says PEANUT BUTTER on it. Instead of storming over to the pantry and pointing in a hostile fashion while huffing and puffing to the poptart he seeks, I will try to gently show him they are right beside the granola bars. Instead of shouting "use your eyeballs, fool" when he wants the parmesan, I will simply tell him it is on the third shelf. I will remind him to use all his senses to find what he needs, not to rely on his eyes, since they clearly are not working. I will suggest using his nose and smelling each item until he finds the oreos. Or use his tongue and dip it in all the condiments until he finds the ketchup. There are other ways to find the food, and together we will work to figure them out. We can beat this thing. 

If your husband suffers from Food Blindness, you need to acknowledge it. Help him understand his illness and let him know he is not alone. Remind him men everywhere are staring at refrigerators, wondering where their gatorade is. I am currently developing methods to help our men overcome their problem. I think using flashcards of food items, walking around the grocery store and pop quizzing on what things are, and tazing their crotch every time they ask where something is, are all viable therapy options. We must retrain their brains. Sometimes it will be harder on you than it is on them. Sometimes it may take tough love. Sometimes you may have to let them starve for a few days.

So the next time your husband asks where the chips and salsa are, don't slap him in the face. Give him a hug. It's not his fault.
You see this.

He sees this.
It is an epidemic people.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...