Julia

Clean Living

Do you guys remember that time I did an IVF cycle? Remember the deal was that we would do IVF and then test the embryos to make sure they were not carrying the killer versions of Steve's genetic peculiarity? And then we would transfer the good ones only and I would get pregnant and we would live happily ever after? Except remember how I miscarried again and it turned out that the PGD-approved embryo had, indeed, carried the unbalanced translocation? Remember that? Well, I would not blame you if you don't because frankly it was forever ago (practically Cruise-Kidman, or at least Cruise-Cruz; not the Very Now Cruise-Holmes Epoch) but I bring it up because I heard from the IVF clinic today.

I had sent them a copy of the fetal karyotype and then they requested a copy of Steve's karyotype and then they needed the actual slides for both. So they looked at the one and they looked at the other and then they looked at what they had tested and they finally called to tell me: it wasn't their fault. The cell they did PGD on was normal. A few of the cells in the fetal tissue were normal. Thus, they concluded, it must have been an example of that mosaicism you read about all the time. That rare instance in which an embryo has both normal and abnormal cells (odds of occurence with PGD roughly 5-10%, are we the luckiest people you know or what?)

This is what they said and it is all very good and well, but work with me here. You start with one sperm and one egg, right? And that sperm carried an unbalanced arrangement of Steve's specific translocation. So how, exactly, were normal daughter cells (ha! daughter cells!) created from this? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

But, whatever. "Mosaic" is a perfectly good way of saying "unknown" as far as I am concerned.

The big news is this. My RE offered to let us do another cycle with PGD (whenever we want) and pay {ed. I am taking out the specific reduction because it just occurred to me that I should} less. And while it is not often that the generosity of an infertility clinic moves me to say, "Well done, lads" I have to admit that I am impressed.

They felt so badly about the miscarriage (correction: they felt so badly about the failure of preimplantation genetic diagnosis to succesfully identify the specified translocation) that they have given me an IVF Gift Certificate with no expiration date. Isn't that thoughtful?

Since I still (STILL) have not started a new cycle (seven weeks...) following the D&C it is all academic at this point, but it is nice to know we have it as an option, don't you think?

Tomorrow I dust off the ol' mailbag and answer leftover questions. I remember baking soda, blowjobs and blogging came up and I will check to see what else there was recently. Feel free to add anything you're curious about. We aim to please.

My Bad

Oh.

Oh dear.

Oh my.

Oh WOW.

First, just so you don't think I am asking you to screw-and-tell while I am sitting here in the corner wearing sunglasses, stroking a lithograph and being all silent and creepy: Steve and I have sex 6-7 times a week, more or less.

Now that I have gotten a completely new understanding of human sexuality from your comments (did you notice that I am a little taller? Well, that's how much I have grown as a human being in the past few days- it's true) I feel like I need to qualify that statement.

I mean, I love the image of me daily tossing my glorious auburn locks to the wind, bosom heaving in a ripped bodice, while a stripped-to-the-waist Steve clasps me from behind and growls, "There is only one way to tame a vixen like you!" but the truth of the matter is this. After a year of OPKs and charting and temping with nary a pregnancy in sight, we struck on the rather novel approach of conceiving through having sex every day. I am not suggesting that you kids try this at home, I am only pointing out what worked for us. So the daily sex became, well, sort of a habit, I suppose. Like brushing our teeth and reading Get Fuzzy. With time off for Patrick's first year and post D&Cs and the IVF-o-Rama we have just been slogging along building our family, one XXXX day at a time.

What had not occurred to me until I read your comments, though, is that the only reason we are able to actually do this is that we are both home all day, every day, and Patrick takes a nice long nap in the afternoon. Two or three o'clock rolls around and we usually find ourselves with some time on our hands and... well, there it is. If we had to have sex at the end of a long day I doubt we would do it nearly as often. In fact, I assume that we would have sex at night about as often as we do now (afternoon quickies notwithstanding) maybe twice a week?

I am sure you thought that I was asking because Steve is claiming seigneurial rights more frequently than I am willing to oblige, correct? Well, actually, it went like this:

January through April saw us in a veritable sexual drought. IVF wiped out the first two months, the pregnancy cleared about a month and a half, and then the D&C had me back up on blocks until a few weeks ago. So when we finally got our groove back I assumed that Steve would be happy about it and I felt like hearing how great I was. Thus, I asked one of those questions that isn't really a question because you think you know what the other person is going to say. Questions that are just praise-bait, really.

I asked: "Aren't you happy with the sex these days?" and waited for Steve to take me in his arms and murmur, "You are my everything, baby." Or something like that.

Instead, he looked serious and said, "Well, since you asked... I guess I would really like it if we had sex in the morning more often. The afternoon and evenings are great, but I do like it in the morning too. "

And I said, "Are you CRAZY? That's WEIRD."

Just so you know, I have not had morning sex in YEARS. I HATE it. I am NOT a morning person. It is all I can do to drink a cup of tea and keep my eyebrows on before noon. The idea of bucking around all naked, unfortified by both breakfast and lunch.... bleh.

So the intent behind my question was to gather the information that all of you were just having sex on Boxing Day. I was then going to return to Steve and say, "See?! SEE?!? You should be grateful you are getting the sweet sweet so regul'r and not be all uppity over TIMES OF DAY, mon brave."

But...BUT your comments have stopped me cold. Because isn't my whole premise predicated upon the stereotypes that are causing so many of you such angst? Men want sex all the time! Women control the gold mine! As long as men are getting some, any, they should just shut up and smile!

Obviously this is nonsense. Did you see how many women wrote that they were more interested in sex than their husbands/partners? There they were all alone in their Victoria Secret bustier wondering what the fuck is wrong with them, and why? Because we have all been led to believe that women and women and men and men and sex (ed. my original intent, Brad darling, as clearly it is not all Dick and Jane around here, thank god) converge at specific points and those specific points only. I have been thinking about it and I have developed this whole theory about how certain cultures at certain times have restricted female sexuality as a means of preventing the economic autonomy of women. It's fascinating, really, and I would expand upon it right now, but... I have to go to bed if I am going to be all sexy in the morning.

Steve is neither crazy nor weird nor an ingrate and he, like all of us, is entitled to express sexual interest without ridicule or knee-jerk rejection. You know, sometimes I astonish even myself with what a dick I can be.

I am glad you wrote. You all helped me and I hope you helped each other. Awww... come here! Group hug!

But First

How often do you have sex?

I know, I know, I am sorry. It is vulgar to pry and unladylike to be so knowing but let us just say that the subject has come up and it's..... gah. Blarg. Faugh.

Post anonymously, if you like, but give me a little ammo here. I've got some punting to do, my friends....   

Catch-up (Catsup? Ketchup?)

The nurse who had me popping baby aspirin and shopping for blood donors called today. Apparently what she meant to say last week is that I need to schedule an appointment with the hematologist but overall it is no big deal since about half of all Caucasian women carry a heterogeneous MTHFR mutation. She had no recollection of having spoken to me about this before and no idea that she had called in a prescription for me or told me to start taking aspirin. It was... odd. Funny odd, like a Monty Python sketch but still odd. In the absence of existing evidence to the contrary we will assert that she is the crazy one, but keep an eye on me, won't you? I have always assumed that when I go mad it will be more Ophelia-like what with the flowers and the abbreviated swims but you never know.

In sum we are downgrading the MTHFR mutation to an Orange Alert and Steve is back in the HippoG yearbook as Most Likely to Cause a Miscarriage.

Going to DC to help with the new baby was absolutely The Right Thing to do and I am still glowing with the rectitudinousness of it all. To be honest with you, I was worried beforehand that I was going to find the situation painful and envy-making. Why, if Steve hadn't tampered with the Pharoah's tomb long these many years ago I would have a newborn too! But it was absolutely fine. My sister-in-law staggered around and updated her hourly intake-output baby charts (*) and I made bland, healthy freezables to her specifications (who knew ground beef and semolina were so evil? and don't even get us started on our Family Favorite: whole milk) and chush-chush-chushed the baby. I gave him his first bath and held him when he got his Hep vaccination and generally loved him all over the damned place. It was good. I think he likes me.

I am in limbo again and it makes me thick and stupid. On the Second Baby front I am just waiting, waiting, waiting to start a post-D&C cycle so we can do... something. Six weeks and counting, for those of you who care. On the First Baby front Patrick is just Patrick in the same way coffee ice cream covered in hot fudge topped with fresh whipped cream and swimming in Frangelico is just... well, you know, he is absolutely delicious. His newest joke, which he delivers as a monologue, is: "Knock-knock! Who's there? Zebra? There is no zebra! That made the zebra cry. Hahahahahahaha......." 

I seem to find Deadwood strangely erotic so Steve, in that simple way he has of finding joy in even the most repetitious of acts, is happy. He just put three new windows into the basement, creating both literal and metaphoric light at the end of that tunnel. Remind me to tell you what colors we did down there... actually, remind me to tell you everything I have promised to mention and haven't. Seriously, post below. What do I owe you? What do you want to know? Did I tell you where we are sending Packy to school next year? Did I ever finish answering your questions from before?

Seems like a good a time as any to catch-up, so ask.

This Post Brought To You By Patrick

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Hey! It turns out that Patrick was not quietly eating his split pea soup while I put some clothes in the dryer. Au contraire! He was blogging! The little scamp....

Note to self: Do NOT leave Typepad open on my computer.

Note to you: I am back but busy re-creating those little touches that make a house a home- like toilet tissue ensconced in holders rather than casually displayed atop the commode (remind me, I was gone for a couple of days, right? not a couple of months?) Will post at length later.