Julia

12.6

You know those movies in which the main character is trying to accomplish some task that should be easy (the gorgeous Run Lola Run, Scorsese's After Hours, Adventures in Babysitting) and yet the hero/ine keeps getting thwarted? That was me trying to post today.

Do you want to tell me why, on a beautiful windless 74 degree day, our power went out for four hours? Or why, when it finally came back, my wireless keyboard would only respond to function keys?

The ultrasound was good. Better than good. Great. It was a great ultrasound. A solid week's growth. Heartbeat in the 140s. Last night I was too nauseous to sleep and this morning I threw up in the tub because it was that little scootch closer than the toilet so I was hopeful that things were still growing. I was, however, imagining one of those lose-a-day-or-two situations in which everything could be fine but... . I hate that ominous but.

Anyway, as I have said a million times before, I am pleased for now. Which is all one can ever ask for, really.         

12.5

Heartbeat ok... but measuring small for dates by a few days. Might have grown appropriately from last week, though. Who knows. Not sanguine but almost too sick to care. Driving home was a nightmare, reminiscent of one too many debauched mornings with my head out the window.

Follow up ultrasound next week.

Thanks for checking on me.

Uhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Autopilot

I have written and deleted a few posts this past week. Nothing seemed particularly inspired or inspiring. At first I was nervous because morning sickness was rather lackluster and then the next thing I knew I was lying on the bathrooom floor getting gentle head pats from Patrick while he said, "I need to throw up too, Mommy. Huhnk huhnk. See? Watch me. Are you watching? Huhnk."

He is delicious and quite empathetic, actually. The second my voice gets a little croaky he races to my side, employing a cute but disturbingly Cartman-esque sing-song, "Are you ok, Mommy? Are you feeling a little sick? Can I get you some water?"

So short answer to where have I been: prone. See also: sick.

I am less nervous about the ultrasound tomorrow since I feel so bloody awful now. Pregnancy symptoms suck as long-term success prognosticators but they are rather effective in the short term. And since I can only think about a pregnancy one week at a time that works out just fine for me.

Two questions:

1. What the hell can I feed Patrick for lunch? I am in a serious rut. Peanut butter and jelly, grilled cheese, or turkey slices with crackers and cheddar cheese. Once a week or so we really splurge on sodium and he gets Annie's Bunny O's or whatever they are called. Any suggestions would be most welcome. And I know I owe you more recipes. I'll work on it.

2. Do you know any, um, I don't even know what to call them. Choosing rhymes? There must be a name for them. You make two fists (or one fist with two hands if you are doing Big Potatoes). The other people make two fists. Then you go around the circle knocking their fists with yours, eliminating people (ultimating figuring out who is It or who gets to go first or whatever). Right? Right. Patrick thinks they are enchanting but I only know three:

One potato, two potato

Three potato, four

Five Potato, six potato

Seven potato or

and

Bubblegum bubblegum

In a dish

How many pieces do you wish? (whoever gets hit on "wish" says a number, like four)

Four. 1 2 3 4

f--o-u-r spells four and you are not it

and finally (my personal favorite)

My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes

My mother punched your mother right in the nose

What color was the blood? (blood always answers, Red! if he is Patrick because Patrick is like that)

Red. r-e-d spells red and you are not it

Do you know more or do you know different versions of these? As I think about it I'll bet the potato thing doesn't actually end with the word "or". That doesn't make any sense. Please share if you have them.

Ultrasound is tomorrow at ten. I'll let you know happens when I get home. I am going to go ahead and jinx myself by saying that I am not only optimistic that there will be a heartbeat I am very optimistic. Ha. 

PS Oh for the love of... I typed that last part about jinxing. I wrote "Ha". I contemplated adding something cheeky about Nemesis and then decided no no, that would be pushing my luck. I went to the bathroom and... I seem to be spotting all of a sudden. Brown. Not much. But still. Crap. 

12.4

Hey! My ultrasound isn't until 4 this afternoon!

Sorry, I should have told you that sooner. And then we went out to dinner. It is Minnesota so you can go to dinner at 5 in the afternoon. In fact, if you put off dining until 5:30 you will wind up having to wait. Because we are all eighty years old in Minnesota.

Sooooooooooooooooooooooooo, the ultrasound.

Eh.

Just one, I should say that first. Just one sac. Sac measured appropriately. Yolk sac ok. Fetal pole? Well, it was there I guess. She measured something that was about 6 weeks, although neither Steve nor I had the slightest idea what she was putting that cursor on. Looked like a whole lot of fuzzy nothing to me, but whatever. No heartbeat, though. Or no clearly visible heartbeat I should say. Again, Steve and I both thought we saw something blinky but she kept zooming around so we were not sure.

Hardly the greatest ultrasound ever but I am willing to reserve judgement for a while. I am downgrading my optimism, though, to compressed lip pessimism. Follow-up ultrasound next Tuesday.

I usually try to end with some sort of declarative statement so you Normals know what to think but frankly I do not know what to think. So I'll just leave it at that.      

Strep Tease

Wednesday night Patrick felt a little warm and feel asleep on the couch before bedtime. We gave him some Tylenol and brought him up to his room. An hour and half later I checked on him and he felt like he had just gotten out of the pool. His hair was drenched. His sheets were soaking. We could have melted cheese on his skin (ummmmmm, raclette). He was ridiculously feverish, you see.

Thursday my mother arrived for a long weekend and Patrick slept. He took a three hour nap in the morning, woke up for some more Tylenol and then crashed again. I asked him if anything hurt and he said, no. His throat? No. His ears? No. Stomach? No no n.. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. So I decided to just let him sleep. My mother kept giving me incredulous aren't-you-going-to-take-this-poor-sick-little-boy-to-the-doctor looks coupled with you-are-the-mother-and-I-am-not-going-to-interfere-but sighs. She made dark and repeated mention of my childhood hamster, Maxwell Montague, who went to that great squeaking wheel in the sky while under my loving care (he was old! he was, like, TWO!)

I consider myself a savvy, veteran parent. I no longer race Patrick to the pediatrician every time I notice his ears attach a little higher on one side than the other. I have realized that each time I take Patrick to the doctor when he is sick it winds up being just a virus and the pediatrician puts a switchblade (courtesy of Merck) to my throat and threatens to cut me if I so much as even think about asking for an antibiotic to treat a virus. And I'm all, no no, I wouldn't dream of it, I didn't know it was only a virus, don't cut meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. So it is a wasted trip and to top it off Patrick usually picks up some sort of auxiliary disease while we are in the office thus prolonging everybody's agony. This is to say: I try to avoid taking the child to the doctor if I possibly can and I did not see any reason to change this policy despite the fact that we were using the back of his neck to toast s'mores.

However

It wasn't Patrick's high fever or his inability to stay awake for more than ten minutes that moved me in the end, nor was it my mother's patent disapproval of my Marquis de Sade parenting. It was when I noticed that his lips were swollen and his eyes were bloodshot and he kept sucking his fingers and you could see the veins in his ears. Not so much because these four things are familiar warning signs to me, but because they seemed so disparate and strange. Kid with a high fever: normal. Finger-sucking kid with a high fever looking like he had an enthusiastic Botox job while blood is trying to escape his body via osmosis: weird (go ahead! play web md! diagnose him! I'll wait).

When the doctor came in Patrick was cuddled on my lap with his arms and legs in the air like an up-ended turtle. He righted himself. He uncorked his fingers from his mouth. He looked at her with obvious relief and said, "My throat hurts."

His throat hurts? Hadn't I asked him that about a zillion times already? Hadn't he already told me no? I guess you don't give your sworn statement to the crossing guard... jeez what a snob this kid is.

She took a look at his throat and whistled and said, "I can see that! Your tonsils are very big and bright red. You must have been feeling pretty sick for a while, huh?" She looked at me accusingly. My mother looked at me accusingly. Patrick probably would have looked at me accusingly but he was too busy staring with adoration at the pediatrician.

"It's probably strep. I'll take a culture."

"OK," I said, "but it is never strep. We have had him tested for strep five hundred times and it is never strep. But fine. Culture it. Please. Go ahead. But it is not strep."

It was strep. He was sucking his fingers because his throat hurt because he has strep. His lips were swollen because his entire mouth and throat were inflamed because he has strep. Blood vessels were visible in his eyes and ears because his body was struggling to cool itself because he had a high fever. Because he has strep.

Two days of amoxillian and he is sparkling around the house again. I, however, have slipped to a third-rate power.

Pregnancy feels quite normal. So far. For what it is worth. Tired, vaguely nauseous, sacroiliac joint killing me on the left side, breasts need forearm support when going downstairs in my pajamas...  five weeks and change normal for me.

I have been pondering the hcg levels and have reluctantly concluded that we can deduce nothing from the sudden upswing. I notice quite a few of you started chanting twins! twins! twins! with triplets! and quads! booming as a round composition (like Row Row Row Your Boat or, if you are feeling more sophisticated, your favorite fugue). I dunno. Maybe. I originally thought twins, just because, well, this sounds silly but I have always believed we would one day have twins. Cross my heart, true story. I psychically intuit twins. Oh, right, and the 80 mature follicles I had. Those too. Then the hcg levels were so... average that I thought no, not twins. Now I am back to maybe. We'll see. My mother leaves tomorrow and Steve returns (he went looking for property in Iowa this weekend. you know, a safe house. because I beat him. hahahahahahahaha) and then ultrasound on Monday. I am, um, if I say I am optimistic will you laugh at me? I know it is foolish to think this one might turn into an actual baby but there it is. I cannot shake the optimism.

Hope you are having a good weekend.

12.3

The nurse called this morning with the latest hcg numbers. First she asked how I was. Then she told me how she was.

Then she said, "So we have the last level...."

"Yes?"

"Now when was this taken? The 8th? When was the 8th?"

I had to look at the calendar. "Yesterday," I said.

"Oh. And where are the numbers from the 6th?"

"We didn't do a draw on the 6th. It was Sunday. So Friday and then Tuesday. Four days."

"Oh right."

"Welllllllllllllllllllllllllllll?" I asked.

5440

786 to 5440 in four days.

I woofed out a big exhale and detached my hand from the Triscuit I had reduced to powder while talking to her. Since I had already figured out about twelve times that we were looking for something in the 3100 range I was able to zone while the nurse fussed around with the same calculations.

I am pleased.

No more blood draws. Ultrasound on Monday.

Zing!

Maybe? Maybe this one? Maybe this time?

Theft

Steve took the trash and the recycling down to the road this morning. When he came back up he asked me if I had put outgoing mail in our mailbox. I thought about it and said yes, I had.

"Well, the flag is still up but the door is open and the box is empty."

It took me a moment to process this. Then I thought, arrrgggghh, damn weiner kids. I immediately assumed some bored teenagers were driving around the country roads last night being bloody minded. In fact, I thought I could probably identify the exact moment they had emptied our mailbox as I heard a car and music and squealing tires just as we were going to bed. I had even asked Steve if he wanted to call the sheriff's department, as we are consciously trying to draw attention to reckless driving on our newly-paved road. Because we are upstanding like that, yo. He declined, mouth full of electric toothbrush as it was.

This morning I was annoyed at the thought that people had nothing better to do with their Monday nights than inconvenience me. Wasn't there even a football game on? Granted, I disapprove of the pre-season but still... anything is better than committing felony mail theft. Jackasses.

Then I thought about what had been in the mailbox. Two Netflix returns - fuck!- and a couple of checks totaling about $5000 - fuck fuck fuck fuck!

What a hassle. And what if it wasn't just a bunch of loser teenagers whose parents need to strongly consider Family Game Night as an enticement to keep their children out of my crap? What if it was the work of actual criminals, capable of washing checks or building identities from the information they had stolen ("Well, OK, Julia, if you are who you say you are... what is Captain O'Neil's first name? Jack? Fine. His story checks out. Get him a key to the safe deposit box")?

So rather than take Patrick to the playground as promised I spent the morning alternately on the phone with the bank and entertaining the nice sheriff's deputy who came right away. She told us that she had noticed a few boxes open to the south of us and was going to head down and see who else had been hit. She told us that the state of Minnesota has just joined several other states in offering consumers the ability to put a security freeze on their credit reports, thus preventing anyone from opening anything in your name. She told us we really should take our mail to the post office and she pointed out that a mailbox with a lock on it is just common sense. She was a treasure.

For the common good I will summarize what it took me three hours to learn today via the least customer friendly websites in the history of all time. If you suspect that your personal information has been violated and that you might be at risk for identity theft (but it has not yet occurred) you have two options. You can place a fraud alert over the phone with one of the three national credit reporting bureaus (Equifax, TransUnion, Experian- you only have to call one and they will notify the others). The fraud alert stays in place for 90 days and requires that creditors call you at a number you provide before issuing credit in your name. The more aggressive measure is called a security freeze. This must be done in writing and it does not transfer between credit bureaus so you need to file three separate requests. It prevents the bureaus from releasing your credit information at all. You can file for temporary lifts should you need to apply for legitimate credit for something and you can file to have it removed entirely.

There it is. My gift to you.

Bastards. I remember when I was in college having some unspeakable fiend steal two bags of my kitty litter out of my roommate's trunk. At a time when I had like $8 to my name and I NEEDED that cat litter. I was so angry and frustrated by it. It was so senseless and it really stung. I have been the victim of a violent crime and that is a whole other universe all together, but these little niggling unkindnesses... they hurt.

Do you know? 

Off to the blood draw. So glad I didn't cite low crime rates as our number one reason for living here. Boy would my face have been red.

Book Tour

About a month ago I got an email from Ayun Halliday asking if I would like to be part of her Mama Lama Ding Dong virtual book tour. After taking a moment to distinguish her from Ayelet Waldman (don't ask) I swooned from the implied compliment and wrote a fatuous note of acceptance.

A few days later I was cutting through the Travel section of Borders on my way from the children's area to the checkout (what else would I be doing in Travel? where do I think I am going? the Boundary Waters?) and I spied a copy of her travel memoir No Touch Monkey. Since we were now clearly best friends (not to mention, heh heh heh, No Touch Monkey: And Other Travel Lessons Learned Too Late, the title alone, that's funny) I bought it. And I loved it. I read from one hand while I picked up a million little cars with the other. I let Patrick eat applesauce while typing on my computer to buy myself another ten minutes to get through Africa with Ayun. I read parts aloud to Steve and I finished the entire thing that afternoon.

It didn't matter that I have never been to any of the countries she visited. It didn't matter that she devoted a large quantity of prose to gastrointestinal distresses, a subject that we all know leaves me clammy and pale on the chaise longue. Her self-deprecating humor and genuinely fascinating anecdotes swept me along beside her.

So I was really looking forward to Mama Lama Ding Dong (a book I will henceforth refer to as The Big Rumpus because that is the edition I read and if I have to type all of those a's and m's again we are not going to get very far). It is billed as "A Mother's Tale From The Trenches" and what could be more fitting than that? I'm a mother! I'm in the trenches right now, and you know what? They are filthy, but every now and then the enemy comes over and kisses me on the lips and gives me a crushed snapdragon and I somehow soldier on. I was looking forward to sharing the exquisite tedium of child-rearing with her just as I had vicariously enjoyed her relief from that dislocated knee in Southeast Asia.

I am not proud of this next part so bear with me until we reach the more enlightened conclusion. After reading the first few chapters of The Big Rumpus I was dismayed to discover that I am not the liberal, live-and-let-live, never-stop-learning, new experience-seeker who I believed myself to be. I am actually an insecure, defensive, petty ass. I know! I was shocked too. But for some reason the differences between Ayun and myself in perspective and temperament that made No Touch Monkey such a delightful read suddenly became horribly divisive when the subject was motherhood. I personally would not go on a gorilla expedition by myself if my brother's life depended upon it, but I read her travel memoir with the avid pleasure of a voyeuse. Fuck common ground, man. Who cares if I would have been selling my body for just fifteen minutes in a Hyatt after one night with her in Germany? This was excellent, entertaining stuff and it didn't matter that I could only barely relate to it through personal experience. However, when she wrote her views on cribs, circumcision or living anywhere but New York in The Big Rumpus, I bridled. I took umbrage. I muttered, "Oh yeah?" as I read. I was no longer charmed by a glimpse down the road not taken, I was positively threatened by it. 

Consider, for example, the always innocuous subject of breastfeeding. I breastfed Patrick. After three weeks of cracked bleeding nipples, numerous infections, and much weeping and gnashing of the teeth (mine) it got better and we persevered and it was fine. But, to borrow a fantasy from The Big Rumpus, would I have asked to nurse Patrick one final time if I found myself fatally pinned between a subway car and the platform? No. I would have asked for some goddamned morphine or, failing its ready availability, one last Camel Light now that I would no longer need to worry about cancer or setting a poor example for my son. Reading Ayun's paean to breastfeeding made me feel... inadequate. About something we had both done but I was suddenly afraid that I had not sufficiently enjoyed! How ridiculous is that?

While I know there are any number of ways to travel through Asia (I would prefer to be carried on a litter but what fun to read about Ayun hobbling on her own two feet) I guess in my heart of hearts I felt like there must be only one right way to raise a child. And if The Big Rumpus chronicles the Right Way than in numerous instances my way is, by default... wrong. I felt judged by her funny and gentle stories of raising children in New York. I frantically tried to think of a time when Minnesota-born Patrick has entered an actual butcher shop, seen a Rastafarian, or stepped delicately over a crack addict. I was only able to conjure his impressive familiarity with where my favorite Mossimo t-shirts are hidden at both Close Target and Less-close Target. And I felt terrible.  Which is patently absurd. Of course it is. I know that. I am not a worse parent, just a different one. And difference is INTERESTING! Difference is EDUCATIONAL! Difference is GOOD!

Allowing this intellectualized defense to beat the crap out of my visceral, I'm-a-terrible-mother insecurities,  I poured myself a nice big glass of a chewy red wine and I tried again.

On page 41 of The Big Rumpus Ayun writes :

"What would have become of me if I did live in a suburb, or even a city like Los Angeles, where it is normal for new parents to have cars and backyards with their own swing sets? I would have gone mad from the isolation! I would have had to join a mother's group! I would have crawled there on my knees if I didn't have a sports utility vehicle."

The first time I read this I guiltily checked the two SUVs in our garage and skipped my eyes past the new playset in the front yard with its three slides, two swings, multi-level climbing decks and periscope. I remembered the communist playgroup (name my own. irony intended) I joined when we moved here and my cheeks burned with shame.

But do you know what? She is right. I DID go mad from isolation when we moved to this third-tier rural suburb. I DID join a mother's group (to which I drove my SUV) in the fever of my madness and, while I mostly loathed every second of it, it did give me a day off from taking Patrick through Target... AGAIN.

And what of it?

I like living here. I like our 80 acres of woods and our wild berries and the family of baby raccoons that comes to share the bounty of our bird and deer feeders. I like the fact that I sort of hate our neighbors and I never ever ever have to see them. I like the tranquility and I like the moonlit nights when you can hear the coyotes hunting. I like our small town with its vitriolic politics and its 140 year old ice cream shoppe. I like the fact that when I need a shower curtain Bed Bath and Beyond, Linens-n-Things, Walmart, SuperWalmart, Target and Target Greatland all share a parking lot ten minutes from my house. I like that a nice guy named Dan delivers a week's worth of groceries every Tuesday and puts them in my kitchen for me. It is easy here. It is an easy place to raise Patrick, peaceful and bucolic.

Which is not to say I would not sell my soul for a pretzel vendor or Burmese food or daily commune with a gloriously mish-mashed humanity that would prevent Patrick from one day shaming me for all eternity by saying to a stranger, "Excuse me, but I cannot help but notice that you are black... ." Because I would. I would sell a small wedge of my soul for these things.

But back to The Big Rumpus (this is going somewhere, trust me). By thus giving myself permission to envy Ayun in her never-sleeping city while acknowledging that I would hate it there and that's ok too, I was able to enjoy The Big Rumpus as another brilliant travelogue of sorts. An exotic adventure in parenting where the differences can be as satisfying as the similarities (hey! she thinks being a mother is pretty damned boring too!)

And there are certainly differences between how Ayun Halliday and I approach the delicate art of child wrangling. Chief among them, I think, being location and all that location entails.

I asked Ayun to explain it to me. Why? Why a big city? Why SUCH a big city? Why New York?

I wrote:

"... what makes it worth your while to carry six bags of groceries up three flights of stairs to an apartment that is smaller than my garage... WITH A BABY ON YOUR BACK? You are a better man than I am, Gunga Din, that is for damned sure. It seems like raising children in NYC would be rather, I don't know, inconvenient."

And she replied:

Yes, it's grueling to haul groceries four blocks on foot, then up three flights. Yes, there's a good chance your child will eat the bagel he or she dropped to the sidewalk, unmindful of the fine veneer of urine covering every New York City surface that's free to the general public. And yes, we rarely get to MOMA, the theater, the Met, or any of the other amenities that allegedly make my tiny apartment and colossal rent so worthwhile. But I love it. I love being a mother in this town, love the sense of community, love being where the action is, love all the crazy diversions going down on any given day. Much of what I love about raising kids in the city is encapsulated in the Coney Island Mermaid Parade, the high point of my religious calendar. Chinese New Year is a close second. Oddly, both of these events tend to put my husband in an ill temper. Anyway, here for what it's worth, are just a few of the things I love about raising children in NYC, vis a vis The Coney Island Mermaid Parade.

1. Taking the subway in a bra and a tail.

My similarly garbed children's providing escort deflects all unwanted attention of the hootchie-coo variety, as well as the slings and arrows of passengers who might disapprove of a solo middle-aged woman flaunting her flabby abs and bodacious ta tas (I owe it all to a kelp-covered underwire bikini top). We have seen strange things on the subway and sometimes we are the strange things on the subway. I always get a little thrill when the F train goes above ground, affording us a killer view of the Statue of Liberty. God Bless My America, and I don't differentiate between 'em, though I am partial to Hannuman, Hinduism's most awesome monkey! Let Freedom Ring! We like peering into the next car and discovering that it, too, contains mermaids. We regret that Greg recently purchased a car, that's how much we love us some subway. We will never take a car to Coney Island Mermaid Parade because parking's a bitch, and that's just the way we like it.

2. Freak flags flying in broad daylight and en masse

It's almost always pleasant, but hardly a big deal, to spot a person of unusual appearance on the streets of this town - just yesterday, Inky and I were admiring a bike messenger working some sort of Robo-Insect look - but it's an intoxicating experience for both me and the kids to fall in step with so many fellow New Yorkers who are willing to shed their inhibitions and every day plumage, if only for this day. It's something to look forward to all year. Let other children grow up to remember their mother's hunched over an ironing board. I can dig that not every adult digs the spotlight, but I do feel mildly-to-extremely irritated with these people who want their children to march with us in the Mermaid Parade, but who do not want to march alongside themselves, because they are too shy or too straight or too something to participate. You know what I say? It's just one day. One day to look and act differently. One day where cotton candy and beer can constitute lunch. One day to smile at every single stranger who wants to take your picture. I'm capable of behaving with respect, modesty, and reserve when the situation called for it. I can't understand the rationale of refusing to shake one's mermaid tail for just one fun, silly, memorable day. It doesn't seem like it should be such a big rubber plant to move on behalf of one's child.

3. Costume Heaven

I'm not much of a seamstress, but years of low-budget theater can turn anyone into a costume designer. Some of my fellow mermaid's costumes are works of art, requiring scrod knows how many hours of labor. By comparison, our crew's finery is humble indeed, but boy howdy, do I love me an excuse to trawl the city's many bizarre notion's emporia, cheap n' sleazy clothing outlets, and art supply stores! I like wandering through the cavernous restaurant supply stores on the Bowery, thinking to myself, say, those little woks would make a good bra. There's an industrial plastic supply place on Canal Street that offers endless possibilities...

4. An alternative to corporate culture

The Brooklyn Cyclones may play ball in Keyspan Park, but this year's parade was sponsored by the Mud Truck, an East Village institution, that started as a coffee wagon run by a local couple who brought their baby to work. Last year's sponsor was Bust magazine. There's a do it yourself feel to the whole shebang that's both familiar and inspirational. And for a big event there is a refreshing paucity of crap for sale. Proceeds from Mermaid Parade t-shirts (and sailor caps!) help fund Coney Island USA, a non-profit organization that guards and foments the special vibe of the place. Much much better than, I don't know, all the plastic Blues Clues shite on sale in Radio City's lobby when we had (free) tickets to Blues Clues Live. I can't/won't spend twelve dollars on a foam rubber visor shaped like a dog's head... and I resent having to run a gauntlet of high-priced television tie-ins with young children in tow. Inky, at three, knew the deal ("The one we make out of construction paper at home will be better! The money we save can go toward something really fun!"), but I witnessed plenty of other parents having to deal with screaming melt downs brought on by all that merchandising. Call me a Commie, but I'd like to thank Coney Island USA for making it all so easy for me to set a good example in the responsible consumption department.

5. Flesh Parade

Every year, when we are discussing who to invite, Inky suggests some kid whose parents are devout Muslims, or old school, practicing Catholics and I'm like, "Uh..." I can dig that not everybody's down with public nudity, but speaking for myself, I'm a big believer in all that jiggling, imperfect flesh, mostly because of the pride with which it is displayed. I'm counting on happy, hefty mermaids and - men of all ages to combat the narrow definitions of beauty and social acceptability to which my children are and will be exposed, just by virtue of living in contemporary American society. Actually, Coney Island can be counted on to set a good example in this department on any sunny summer day, not just that glorious afternoon when pirates, mermaids, sailor-men and other creatures of the sea throng the boardwalk. Time Out New York always botches the job with its annual swimsuit issue. Instead of hiring skinny, teenage models they should cull them off the beach of Coney Island! In addition to the always heart-warming diversity of body types on display, there's a full spectrum of racial representation, something I lacked growing up and now consider essential.

6. Living History!

Every year, my class would make a pilgrimage to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which, in my book, was an experience akin to Bart Simpson's box factory field trip. What I wouldn't have given for a honky-tonk boardwalk, some fresh air, a rich and seedy history, rides of questionable safety, an annual even where you get to dress up like a mermaid and a non-exploitive, but definitely old-timey freak show. (Ask my kids about the East German guy who swung rusty buckets of fire extinguishers and other assorted weights from cables connected to his primitively pierced ear lobes!) I would have given anything, that's what.

And she sent these photos as incontrovertible proof that much earthy, weird fun was had:

I want to bring my trusty seaweed thong and my, um, WOKS? (DAMN Ayun!)... and my Lady Godiva hair and  go revel with the other mermaids. I also want to offer this, a photo from the same month, different childhoods, 1200 miles apart (NOT my house! we DO NOT plant little American flags! Repeat! NOT MY HOUSE!) I cannot resist these parallel visions of an Americana summer, eh?

When describing the mothers outside New York who read her zine, Ayun writes, "It's good just to know they are out there, in Bumblefuck, Idaho. We might not see eye to eye on the best place to raise children, but we are all in the same boat."

So what do you think? Have you read this book? Did you like it? Do you live in a city? The City? Old suburb, new suburb, farm? If you have children (or are trying to, you know what I mean, don't get mad at me) did they (or the desire for them) affect your decision to live where you do? Is it hard easy rewarding annoying?

Oh, and do consider buying The Big Rumpus. And No Touch Monkey while you are at it. They are funny and smart. You'll like them. 

++++++++++

On a completely unrelated note, Friday's hcg results will be back today. I will update the bottom of this post when I get them. I could write a new post but wouldn't that be like agreeing to host a book signing in my little shop and then telling the author that we have set up her table in the men's bathroom because the nice space in the front is being used for an employee birthday party? Exactly. But check back here after noon if you like. 800 or bust, that's the banner.

++++++++++

Damn it damn it daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!!!!!!

Hcg - 786

So, two days apart:

196, 406, 786. Feh. Also bah. Possibly faugh.

I am seriously disappointed. 'Nother draw tomorrow.

12.2

HCG yesterday was 406.

It doubled in a scootch under 48 hours, which is normal.

And nice. See? I am smiling.

We could have either gotten good news or bad news and it was good so I am pleased.

Allow me to give you my philosophy on checking hcg levels. Personally, I have found them to be useful in predicting many of our losses. Pregnancies 1, 3, 6, 7, 9 & 10 all had hcg levels that were either inappropriately low or failed to double in 48 hours or both. And I like to know these things. I like to know when we are 4th and 10, 5 down with 3 holes to play, halfway through the Overture of 1812 without a cannon. Because it gives me no pleasure to blithely roll along for weeks forswearing unpasteurized cheeses and that second glass of wine when nothing short of a complete genetic make-over is going to permit the doomed pregnancy to end in anything but tears. I don't want to pretend I am having a baby simply because I really really want one. I want to either be having one or living my mercury-laden lifestyle with impunity.

Now, I realize that there are people out there who have had situations in which dismal hcg levels are UPSTAIRS SLEEPING IN LADYBUG ONESIES RIGHT NOW, plenty of them, but these are also cases in which Steve's specific translocation was not involved. The upside of so many failed pregnancies is that I can occasionally leave the realm of averages and sort through our own case file for guidance. And crappy hcg results turn out crappily in my world. Not because I feel I am uniquely cursed but because I believe our translocation behaves that way. So when I get bad hcg levels I can put faith in them and I can give myself permission to eat a chocolate chip muffin rather than sticking with pumpkin-bran. Or mainline an eightball. Canned tuna. Whatever. 

I think it is useful to know when something bad is going to happen. However, while grim levels are always grim, our good levels are rarely rosy.

Pregnancies 2, 4, 8 & 11 looked great. Hmmm, now that I think about it, with the exception of Number 8 which had high hcg levels because it started as twins or triplets before resolving to one bad embryo, these are the three pregnancies that developed the furthest and yet we know they carried the unbalanced arrangement because they were all tested. Number Two looked normal at 7 weeks but died before 12, Number Four was the one we only found out was abnormal through amnio and Number Eleven... well, you remember Eleven. It was in April and it sucked.

Pregnancy 5 is the one we call Patrick. His numbers were textbook perfect too.

So who knows. I don't even know why I am telling you all this. I guess I am trying to explain why I bother getting levels checked at all: Bad News Faster, Good News Salty*. That's my motto.

The nurse who finally called with the levels wants me to do another blood draw tomorrow. I would have said no (since I know that the levels look ok'ish so far and that is all the information I wanted until an ultrasound) but the appointment gives me an excuse to leave Patrick with Steve and then I can go to Target afterwards. Apparently I am willing to open a vein in order to not have my beloved child with me for thirty goddamned minutes while I look at discounted summer goods.

Speaking of nurses, I naturally fled to my wonderful OB as soon as the second line dried. I have not called the local RE, why should I? Did you know that their policy with hcg checks is to only tell the patient the results after the second one is completed? They claim it is to prevent undue disappointment but I do not understand this concept in the least. It is called Reality. If your initial hcg levels are miserable are you less disappointed if you get the bad news all at once? I find their policy condescending and the worst type of physician paternalism. You researched your options, made the appointments, followed your protocol and paid for the damned procedure. You have been biting your nails until they bleed waiting to find out if it worked. But this clinic somehow feels you cannot then be trusted with the results? Like you are going to cash out your IRA to buy an Italian crib when you hear that your first hcg is 49 but before you learn that the second level is 32?

Harriet Beecher Stowe once wrote, "In the end, the kindest thing you can give folks is the truth." Which I would like to cross-stitch for this clinic and send to them via parcel post.

Not to mention the fact my RE seems to be unable to keep me distinct in her mind from people who did not want a lot of follicles so screw her. Speaking of Stowe, I think about that quote every time I see another yumnut on the internet strongly discouraging taking an HPT before your period is expected. You might get a positive and then have an early miscarriage, they caution. Yeah? So? Isn't that good to know? Isn't that important? Isn't it true?

Excuse me. Look at that. I had a little rant. How embarrassing.

Where was I? Oh right, speaking of nurses. When I got the positive at home on Monday I called the OB's nurse line and gave my 90 second version of events. Canceled IUI, sex that morning, six follicles, two days of bleeding, positive hpt. Heh heh whoops. They brought me in for an hcg check that afternoon. When I went back yesterday for the second check I had a woman I had never met before draw my blood, while another nurse I also do not know was drawing blood from a woman in the chair next to me.

My nurse asked if this was my second hcg level and I said yes. Then I added, for this pregnancy. I think I must have felt the need for a little fussing because I usually do not draw attention to this fact. The nurse asked how many and I said twelve and she asked how many at home? And I said one. And she sighed and I sighed and she patted my arm as she jabbed me. At which point the other nurse burst out, "Well I am just DYING to know how many you have in there!" I started laughing although sweet gumbo, who are you and why do you know my secrets? My OB's assistant then immediately popped her head around the corner and said, "Oh! Is that Julia? How ARE you? At it again, huh? How many do you have? When do we find out?" Whereupon we were joined in the lab by the ultrasound tech who started telling everyone she had always said I would have triplets. She just knew it. They all chattered about when when when we would know about the quints and meanwhile Random OB Patient B was sitting there with a tourniquet around her purple arm looking distinctively out of the loop. I felt like handing her my chart so she could catch up.

I do love these people and I appreciate the sorority aspects of my visits but, dude, HIPAA, anyone?

All right. I am posting this as is. If I go back and reread it I know I will wind up deleting it all and then I will have to start over. And I don't want to. And Steve is howling for SG-1. Besides you just came for the number anyway, right? Well, there it is and thanks for checking.

More later.

*Salty? Grain of salt? Yes?

Twelve.1

196.

Sorry, I have not been trying to be coy. We have had storms here all day and my internet connection dies when it gets cloudy. Damn satellites.

So the hcg yesterday (um, let's say 14 dpo, shall we?) was 196. For reference that is lower than the last pregnancy at 14 dippos (god bless my mother, she cannot shake this word), lower than Patrick, lower than the one before Patrick that looked normal but wasn't, and much much lower than the twin pregnancy I had that fizzled completely.

I will admit that I was terrified that the nurse was going to call and say, "Your hcg levels had to be sent to NASA for tabulation and... now, are you familiar with the term googolplex?" When she came up with 196 I was, like, oh.

Oh, I say again.

Oh.

How very... unsensational.

One, though, I think, don't you? What was your beta around now, if you ever checked? And was it quintuplets (it was, wasn't it! wow, you look great!)? I will go for another blood draw tomorrow but no results until Thursday; thus nothing to do in the meantime but theorize...