Knocked Up...Knocked Down

Take me out to the ballgame

Did you know that Eric Milton's ERA stinks?  Well, it does.  It does stink.  Emphatically so.  I know this because I am married to a baseball fanatic who regales me with such statistical tidbits on a daily basis.

My husband loves baseball.  He loves to watch it on TV, to listen to it on the radio, to go to major and minor league games, to play it in real life and on video games, and to discuss it. 

He loves it so much that he even participates in a fantasy baseball league.  I don't totally understand it, I just know that he spends hours hunched over the computer, e-mailing the other guys in the league about potential trades and jotting down multitudes of cryptic notations on sheets of paper.  The other day I picked one up and waved it around in front of the birdcage, incredulously saying to Chloe "Do you see this?   This is the work of a madman!"

Luckily for me, I don't mind.  I am not particularly into baseball, but I like it and find it mildly interesting.  I know a lot more about it than I did when I first got married, and my husband beams with pride when I ace one of his impromptu baseball quizzes, which he is fond of giving me on car trips. 

It's fine with me to watch baseball if it's on TV, and I actually enjoy going to the ballpark to see a game.  Although, I must admit, I enjoy the ballpark in large part because of the snacks and the people-watching.  Even if a particular game is a bit dull, the people-watching is always interesting.

Speaking of people at baseball games, you know how there's the little organ tune that ends with everyone yelling "Charge!"?  Well, once we sat a few rows behind a family who thought it was infinitely amusing to keep yelling "CHAAAARRRGGEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" until their voices gave out.  Due to this, we were already considering switching to other seats, but the deal was clinched when their preteen son, who had eaten numerous hot dogs, began experiencing a severe case of, umm, flatulence.  It just about knocked us flat three rows back.  (I wouldn't have been surprised if the grass on the field withered.) Somehow that kid managed to stink up the whole outdoors--THE WHOLE OUTDOORS!  What in the world?!  I was tempted to implore him to seek medical attention...or to at least quit eating hot dogs, for the sake of the rest of humanity.

I am going to a major league ballgame tonight, and I'm looking forward to it.  (Actually, my husband's whole family is going, in order to celebrate our 8-year-old nephew's birthday.) I hope that the game and the people-watching are interesting (but not accompanied by any, er, unpleasant aromas).  Other than the fact that the temperature outside is hotter than the surface of the sun and the fact that Eric Milton is pitching, it should be a fun time.

Shopping spree

Last weekend I went on a clothes shopping spree at my new favorite store, Ann Taylor Loft, thanks to some gift cards that I received for my birthday.  The fact that I am buying new clothes actually is a sign that I have moved through the initial stages of dealing with recurrent miscarriages.

Three years ago when we first started trying to have a baby, I quit buying myself new clothes, because I was saving up my designated clothing money for the maternity wardrobe that I was just certain that I would need soon.  In particular, I completely stopped buying new suits and shoes for work because, what was the point?  I would be a stay-at-home mom within a year!  Ah, the naivete.

I persisted in my penny pinching wardrobe funk until after my third miscarriage.  It was at that time that, each day on the way to the office, I found myself muttering "Eat me" as I passed by the maternity clothing store with the huge, glossy poster in the window proclaiming "Motherhood Is HOT!"

At that point, I got a new haircut and started buying cute clothes again.  I figured, hey, if I have to be barren, I'm going to make an effort to look fabulous while I'm doing it.  I hoped to regain some of the sense of femininity that I felt like I lost due to being unable to successfully carry a pregnancy. 

So last Sunday, in a continuation of that philosophy, I emerged from the store with some new shorts, two casual summer tops, and a beautiful, girlie, robin's egg blue, sleeveless top with a pair of taupe kitten heels and a pleated cotton floral skirt to match.

When I got home, I went through the traditional routine with my husband.  He really is fun and sweet.  He always says, "Hey, what did you get?!  Let's have a fashion show!"  And then he ooohs and aahhs as I twirl around the living room in my new outfits.  He's a keeper.

So, buying new clothes is a part of my life that I no longer put on hold because of infertility.  It feels good.

And now for some not-so-good news...

Yesterday I told you some of the highlights of my weekend trip to my parents' house.  Now I'm going to tell you some of the low points.

I was shocked at how much my dad's condition had deteriorated since I visited them in May.  He is in his late 70s and his hip joint is basically shot.  Now he can't walk without crutches or get much sleep at night, and his face is haggard with pain.  Hip replacement surgery is scheduled for July 18 and he was told that without it, he would be confined to a wheelchair later this year.  At this point, the joint is so deteriorated that it's basically bone-on-bone.  I can only imagine how painful that must be. 

It's hard and sad to see my formerly active dad in his current crippled state.  We are all looking forward to getting the surgery over with, because the prognosis is good that he will be up and walking shortly afterward with very little pain.

(As an aside, I have to mention that I am a bit disgusted with his doctors, because he has been limping and having chronic hip and thigh pain for over a year and a half, and they just diagnosed the joint problem a few weeks ago despite numerous appointments and tests.  Why did it take that long to figure out that an elderly person with hip pain has a hip joint problem?!)

We just found out that in order to have his hip surgery, Dad has to get an "all clear" from his cardiologist.  He has heart disease, and had angioplasty and a stent inserted in an artery in 2003, so they wanted to make sure his circulatory system is healthy enough to withstand the operation.  So he went for a nuclear stress test last week, and the results were questionable enough that he has to have a cardiac catheterization to check out his arteries.  If they find a blockage, he will have to have angioplasty and possibly another stent or heart surgery. 

I'm thankful that he had the stress test and that the doctors are  being proactive about making certain that there are no blockages.  That's not something to mess around with.  However, it adds one more layer of procedures and worry to the whole process.

And now for the selfish part:  I am really disappointed about when the cardiac catheterization has been scheduled (Tuesday of next week), because it is going to ruin my long-awaited vacation.  A busy season that lasted six months just ended at work, and the thing that got me through the past several stressful weeks was a plan for my husband and I to take a vacation at home next week. 

We were going to tell everyone that we are unavailable, and then we planned to sleep in every day, go out for breakfast, go for long walks, go to matinees, go to the swimming pool, and just totally relax.  We are burned out from work and really needed a break and some time together to reconnect before we start trying for pregnancy #5.  We were sooooooo looking forward to it.  Now I'm going to be spending that time at a hospital three hours away from my husband. 

Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge being there for my parents, not at all.  They have done a lot for me (huge understatement), and I love them, so I am happy to be able to be there for them.   I want to be there.  And I need to be there, because my sister will be in California next week and my brother won't come home.  There isn't anyone else to help.

The timing just stinks.

I'm worried about my dad and I'm worried about trying again for a baby.  It's hard, after so many losses in the past few years, to shake this feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next loss to happen. 

It's not shaping up to be a very relaxing summer, to say the least.

Strawberry Fields

"They should create a whole new name for these," I told my husband as I savored the intense sweetness of a ripe, locally grown strawberry that I had just pulled from the vine a few hours earlier.  He nodded in agreement, his mouth too full of the decadent berries to answer.  The word "strawberry" just doesn't cut it, because it conjures up images of anemic, juiceless impostors that are picked green and transported across the entire country before they are peddled in grocery stores nowadays. 

Over the weekend I visited my parents, who live in a small "Rust Belt" town about three hours away.  My sister and nephew also live there.  One of the highlights of the visit was the traditional annual strawberry picking on Saturday at a "pick your own" farm about 15 miles outside of town.  Usually my mom, sister, and I go together, but because my mom had gone earlier in the week, it was just my sister and I this year.

She came to pick me up early in the morning, when the dew was on the grass and the air was still cool.  We drove through the rolling countryside, past dilapidated barns and fields sprouting green stalks from the dry dirt.  There had been very little rain lately, and we commented that it didn't look like the corn was going to be "knee high by the Fourth of July" because of it.

We parked the car and walked into the cool dimness of the tidy white barn at the edge of the berry patch, where we bought quart baskets and borrowed long, flat, narrow metal trays with handles running the length of them to place the baskets on while we pick.  As we rode in the white van taking us to our rows of berries, we chatted easily with the other passengers about the best way to make strawberry jam (freezer jam was the unanimous favorite).  I thought about how much friendlier people are here in the rural area where I grew up as compared to the larger city where I live now.

The van driver escorted each of us to our own designated row, and the picking began.  My sister's row was next to mine, but the other pickers were a short distance away. 

I squatted down, rustling the dark green leaves as I searched for ripe berries, which often were hiding right next to the ground.  It was always a thrill to find a particularly large, perfectly ready one.  There was a satisfying soft "choonk" sound as I snapped each ripe berry from the vine before dropping it into my basket.  The sun gradually rose higher in the sky, warming the berries and releasing their scent.  My sister and I chatted, the topics ranging from trivial to intimate.  As I stood up to stretch my aching knees, I surveyed the pastoral beauty around me.

Heat had began to rise, shimmering, from the baked earth, but a gentle breeze caressed my face and neck, hot under the floppy straw hat I was wearing.  The neat, orderly rows of vegetation, undulating softly, stretched out around me.  Everything was hushed and quiet, other than the fluid warbling of a bird, the buzz of insects, the rustling of shade trees standing tall across the road, and the hushed murmurs of conversations several rows away.  I breathed deeply and felt peace settle on me, the same feeling that I have when I hear certain familiar hymns being sang at church.

Later, I proudly displayed my fruity plunder to my husband, who was gratifyingly impressed by it.  We washed the delicate, aromatic berries, removed the tops and sliced them, revealing rich red color permeating the entire fruit.  There is no white, bland interior to be found in these berries!  They are the real deal.  Their sweetness and flavor are concentrated and intense, and they are full of juice.  We ate them plain, by the spoonful, and then on Sunday, before church, I baked homemade shortcakes for breakfast, and we ate them with dollops of freshly whipped cream.  It was good to be alive.

I froze nine quarts of berries the same day that I pulled them off the vine.  We will use them to make our own jelly, and to make fruit smoothies all winter.  In January, I can pull a bag of berries out of the freezer and even then, when I open the bag, the scent of fresh strawberries wafts out, a memory of my peaceful summer day in the country.

The local strawberry season is an ephemeral pleasure; it lasts only a couple of weeks each year.  During that time, we fully appreciate and savor the taste, sight, and scent of the rich, voluptuous berries.  It reminds me that all times and seasons of life are fleeting, and it helps me to try to stay in the moment and appreciate the blessings and pleasures of each phase as it unfolds. 

There may not be a baby in my house, but there are still miracles all around me, like homegrown strawberries.

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow I get my braces tightened

As you can see, I decided to take a little break from the topic of infertility for a post or two.  Sometimes that can get pretty heavy.  Today I'm going to write about something different:  my braces.  Yep, that's right, I am pushing middle age and yet I have braces on my teeth like some sort of pimply adolescent.

Here's why:  my jaw joints are screwed up because my bite is screwed up.  I have TMJ, which means that my jaw occasionally makes loud, embarrassing cracking noises when I chew and it also hurts periodically.  I was told that if I don't do anything to correct my bite, I might have serious problems chewing my food by the time I'm in my 50s or 60s.  Well, that just won't do; I love to cook and, in my opinion, good food is one of the greatest pleasures in life. 

My teeth were not perfectly straight and were getting a bit more crowded on the bottom as I aged, but that was never enough of a catalyst for braces for me.  However, the threat of eventually not being able to chew was enough to get my sorry TMJ butt to the orthodontist ASAP.

So, last October, on went the braces.  With a nod to vanity, I paid quite a bit extra to get the clear ones so as not to be a complete metal mouth.  Even so, I remember getting in my car in the orthodontist's parking lot immediately after the appointment and anxiously flipping down the visor with the mirror in it to check out how I looked with braces.  "I'm HIDEOUS!" I literally shrieked.

I had no idea that braces could look and feel so enormous and clunky.  It was actually hard to close my lips over them.  I felt like a complete dork.  Plus, my mouth hurt.

My husband and others around me hastened to reassure me that I looked fine and that the braces really weren't even noticeable because they are clear.  A few days later, I was at my in-laws' house, and my mother-in-law was reiterating "Honestly, Jill, they look fine; you can't even see them unless you're right up close!" 

Just then the front door, which was about 12 feet away from where I was standing, burst open and my little niece walked in.  After one or two steps, she stopped dead in her tracks, pointed at me, and demanded (in her outside voice) "Aunt Jill, WHAT ARE THOSE THINGS ON YOUR TEETH?!"

Thaaaaat's cool. Hardly even noticeable.  Right.

Well, by now I am used to the braces and even forget that they are there most of the time, which is a good thing because I'm stuck with them until October of next year.  I made myself feel better by telling myself how lucky I am to be able to afford braces and to get my teeth fixed, so that I can continue to enjoy food until old age.  Think of all the people who need braces, but aren't able to get them.  (It's true, really; I am lucky to have them.)

My husband is even thinking now about getting braces to fix one or two crooked bottom teeth that he has, but we're afraid that then we will look just like that neurotic yuppie couple from the movie "Best in Show" (you know, the ones who freak out about the Busy Bee).  Also, what if it really is possible to get your braces locked together while kissing?  These are some issues that I worry about.

Anyhoo, tomorrow I am going to go get my braces tightened, which means that my teeth will be so sore that I will have to eat soft foods like applesauce and mashed potatoes for three or four days.  In anticipation of that, tonight for dinner I am having grilled steak that I soaked in a delicious marinade for two days.  I figure, eat, drink, and be merry...

Airing my dirty laundry

This just in:  the sky doesn't fall if you wash whites, darks, and lights together in the same load of laundry!  I just discovered this new and tantalizing fact last weekend.

Late last Friday afternoon, things came up at work that caused me to have to work all weekend.  So, my job majorly interfered not only with my personal plans (I hate when that happens), but also with my weekend household chores such as laundry.  My clothes were dirty, and I didn't have much time to make them clean again.

At this point, let me explain to you my laundry history.  My mom was a stay-at-home mother who took her job of running the house very seriously.  She is a laundry virtuoso who knows how to get virtually any stubborn stain out of any type of fabric.  She is militant about doing laundry "the right way," which generally includes (once a week) lots of sorting, some hand-washing of delicates, and a little line drying.  Clean items of clothing were always promptly hung up or folded and put away.  I think she even might have ironed some of my T-shirts.  When I was growing up, Mom inculcated me with her laundry lessons, and I learned them well.  Maybe that's why I absolutely hate doing laundry, because it's always such a production.

My husband's laundry style is much more renegade and commando.  He only does a load when he is completely out of clothes (he has even been known to buy new underwear to avoid doing it, but I can't really criticize him because once in college when I was all out of clean underwear I wore my bikini swimsuit under my clothes for the same reason).  He is totally laissez-faire about sorting and often throws lights in with darks.  He leaves wet clothes in the washer and dried clothes in the dryer for days at a time, and often just wears things straight out of the laundry basket rather than putting them away first.  He rarely cleans out the lint trap.  The horror!

When we first got married and were dividing up responsibilities for household chores, I observed his heinous style of doing laundry and was traumatized.  When I imagined him doing my laundry, visions of tattered bras with melted underwires coming out of the dryer danced in my head.  So, I didn't want him to do my laundry, but I hated laundry so much that I didn't want to do his, either. 

We compromised, and decided to just keep on doing our own laundry.  And we have.  Our dirty clothing never even comingles because we have separate hampers.  Once or twice, as a birthday gift or a bargaining chip, I have agreed to do his laundry for a specified number of weeks, and he thought it was the greatest thing ever.  But generally, we do our laundry separately, me in my anal retentive style and my husband in his renegade style.

However, last weekend I needed clean clothes and didn't have time for my normal anal retentive rigmarole.  So, I put all my laundry in one big pile, darks and lights, bras and pantyhose, delicates and jeans and (shhhhh, don't tell Mom!) I threw them in the washer in one big load of cold water, furtively looking over my shoulder all the while.

Later, when the load was done, I braced myself for discovering my formerly white clothes now being pink or gray, but--shock!--nothing bad had happened.  I had mixed whites, lights, and darks, and the sky did not fall.  What an epiphany!

Who knows what's next?  Maybe tonight I'll do something crazy like putting big pots and pans in the dishwasher.

Older parents

My parents were a bit unusual in their day and age because they had me when they were 41.  Today, that's a somewhat common occurrence, but back in 1968 it wasn't.  Since I will be an older parent myself if I am ever blessed with a child, I have been thinking about the whole subject lately.  There are definitely pros and cons to being a child of an older parent.  I think I can safely summarize my viewpoint on the topic by saying that having older parents was a positive thing when I was growing up, but at this stage of life it is becoming more of a negative.

Some of the advantages of having older parents include the fact that I came along at a stage in their lives when they were settled and very stable, and I benefited from that.  When I was born, they had been married 22 years and had already grown to maturity, relatively speaking, in themselves as individuals and in their marriage, and my dad was at an established place in his career.  The top priority was family time, rather than trying to make ends meet.  They owned a home in a decent neighborhood and didn't have terrible financial worries.  My mom was a stay-at-home mom, and my dad had a good amount of free time on evenings and weekends to spend with us.

In many ways, I had it better than my older sister and brother, who were born when my parents were in their early 20s.  When my parents were married at age 19, my dad was in the Marines.  Shortly after my sister was born three years later, Dad was sent to Korea to fight in the Korean War, and my mom was left at home, a new mom, alone with a very colicky baby.  When he, thankfully, returned home safely, they had my brother.  Finances were tight.  My dad went to college on the GI bill and was the first person in his family to earn a college diploma.  While he was in college, he also ran a small trucking company with some help from my mom.  My mom generally took care of my siblings, and my dad did the best he could to spend time with them.  He would get up at 4 a.m. to study so that he could fit everything in and still see his kids, but he still feels that he missed out on a lot when they were little.

So, when I came along, Dad felt like he got a second chance to enjoy having a child without having some of the pressures that he faced when he was younger and my siblings were little.  He got up to do most of my night feedings when I was a baby, and now he says those times are some of his fondest memories (he, unlike my mom, always was someone who could get by swimmingly on very little sleep).  He spent time with me every night when he got home from work, and we had our little routines, like going grocery shopping together every Saturday morning. 

Since my mom was a stay-at-home mom, I had plenty of time with her, too, and I remember our household as having a generally relaxed pace, even though the house was always clean and my mom cooked dinner every night.  My mom and I had special times, too, like baking cookies together.  Of course, my family had its dysfunctions like every family does, and things were not strife free, but it was still pretty good, overall.  I thought it was great to have older parents.

Flash forward about 30 years.  Now I am wishing that my parents had me when they were younger so that I could have them around longer.  Sometimes when I am looking at them, I am shocked into the realization that they truly look elderly; strangers who see them at out and about at the store or some other public place would think "There is a little old lady and a little old man." 

Their health isn't the best.  They both have survived cancer and both have had stents placed in their arteries to combat heart disease.  My dad has back trouble and hip problems and can barely walk.  He is having hip replacement surgery next month; the doctor told him that he would be in a wheelchair before Christmas without the surgery.  Due to living with the chronic pain, my dad is more depressive and irritable than the cheerful dad that I remember from my childhood.  He is retired and feels a bit useless.  I don't know how much will to live he truly has left right now, and I am praying that the surgery will help him to feel much better mentally and physically. 

I am constantly aware that the time I have left with my parents is limited.  Each holiday, I find myself wondering if both of them will still be living at the same time next year.  It's not easy to see your parents gradually deteriorating.

Meanwhile, my husband and most of my friends have parents who are in their late 50s or early 60s, a whole different stage of life.  They are still very active and vital; they are in a stage of life where they are still the helpers to their children and grandchildren.  My parents are entering the stage where they are the ones who need help.

I know that both my parents, and especially my dad, would be THRILLED to have a new grandchild, although they have never pressured us about it.  I hope and pray that I will be able to have one in time that they will be able to know and enjoy each other.

Interesting article...

My husband recently found this interesting article about using steroids to treat women who have had recurrent miscarriages:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4103884.stm

Pet Ponderings, Part Two

As I mentioned in my previous post, although I love animals, I cannot have a cat or dog due to allergies and asthma.  After years of longing for a cat or dog, I finally accepted that I will never have one, and now I am very happy to have a bird.  Although a bird wouldn't have been my first choice for a pet, it has turned out to be the best choice for me.

It has occurred to me that there might be an infertility and adoption analogy for me in there somewhere.  I know, obviously, that animals and children are totally different creatures, and that being a pet owner is totally different from being a parent, but bear with me for a while.

For years in college, having a pet wasn't really an option because the places I lived wouldn't allow it.  During those years, I held out hope that somehow at some point in the future I would be able to have my own cat or dog living in my home without dire health consequences.  I would be willing to tolerate a perpetually stuffy nose and itchy eyes, and even some asthma symptoms for it.  I had heard that many people's allergies improved as they got older, and I desperately hoped that would happen for me, because I have such a heart for animals. 

Then, during law school, I rented an efficiency apartment that allowed cats.  Operating under the delusion that my cat allergies had improved,  I started cruising the local animal shelters, looking for the perfect feline for me.  Finally, I found her:  an affectionate yet dignified, long-haired, female calico with inscrutable green eyes.  We took an instant liking to each other.  Although she was still beautiful, the tips of her ears were missing and the pads on her feet were damaged due to frostbite.  She had been stray, surviving outside during a brutally frigid winter, when someone found her and brought her to the shelter.  I named her Chelsea and brought her home.  If things didn't work out with her for some reason, I could take her back to the shelter (a no kill shelter) within ten days.

She truly was a dear, sweet animal, and was no trouble at all.  She was not declawed, but never scratched anything in the apartment.  She obediently used her litter box, never making a mess.  Everywhere I went in the apartment, there she was, silently padding behind me.  When I laid down to sleep that first night, she jumped on the bed with me, purring and curling around my head like a cat hat.  She was a perfect pet.

The only problem was, by that first night with her, I could barely breathe.  I mean, I seriously was having trouble getting any air in or out of my lungs.  And I was alone, except for the cat...and, due to her lack of fingers or an opposable thumb, I couldn't exactly count on her to call 911.  It was scary.  I had been like this several times in my life, and it usually necessitated a trip to the emergency room.  I considered calling an ambulance, but by overdoing it with my rescue inhaler I was able to make it through the night at home.

I went to the vet and got some special cleanser to rub on the cat's fur that was supposed to greatly reduce the dander and therefore my allergy symptoms, but it didn't help.

I couldn't keep her.

I was determined to find a home for her myself, because I figured she would have a better chance that way.  I diligently put up flyers at school and talked to everyone I knew who might want a cat.  Unfortunately, no one wanted her.  I had to return her to the shelter.  I cried buckets the day I took her back.

Then, my desire for a pet became focused on a dog.  I went through a similar rigmarole:  hoping for years that someday I could have one, doing research on dogs that are supposed to be better for people with allergies (Bichon Frisees, Poodles, types of water spaniels), and taking allergy shots again (I had taken them as a child, but they hadn't helped much). 

Finally, we bought a house and had a nice place to keep a dog.  I hoped that the allergy shots had made me able to tolerate one of the "hypo-allergenic" dogs.  I had settled on a Bichon Frisee.  This time, instead of bringing a dog home, I decided to spend quite a bit of time with one first.  I found a Bichon Frisee and petted it, played with it, spent time where it lived.  I had an asthma attack.  It just wasn't going to work out.  Even after that, it took a while to completely accept that I would never have a cat or a dog. 

Then, I got my bird, which I had never initially considered as a pet, and I'm very happy with her.  Now I don't think about having a cat or dog anymore; I don't look at people walking or playing with their dogs or petting their cats and think "I wish I could do that."  I don't feel disappointed about it.  I'm happy with what I have.

I wonder if my desire and quest for a biological child isn't somewhat like my desire and quest for a cat or dog.  In both instances, I have pined; gotten a taste of briefly having what I desired, only to lose it; sought medical treatment; tried a long time to find a way to make it work out; and spent years not really considering other options. 

I wonder if I would ever be able to accept that I will never have a biological child in the way that I have come to accept that I will never have a cat or dog.  Some day, years from now, if I never give birth to a baby, will I be able to look at a pregnant woman without a twinge of pain, or visit someone holding their new baby without wishing that I was in their shoes?  Will the desire for a biological child ever go away, or at least diminish greatly?

Am I failing to seriously consider adoption the way I failed to seriously consider that a different type of pet could be as satisfying as a cat or dog?  Would I adopt a child and then wonder why I spent so many years pursuing a biological child, and be totally satisfied with adoption the way I'm satisfied with my bird?  Would adoption be the best choice for me like my bird has been, even though neither one was my first choice?

It's very possible that the answer to all those questions is "yes."  However, before I reached the acceptance stage concerning the pet issue, it took a long road of trying different things and exhausting all possibilities until I was certain that having a cat or dog just wasn't going to happen for me.  I think I still have a little ways to go on the path of trying for a biological child before I'm ready to concede that it's just not going to happen for me and to truly begin to accept that. 

I pray that if I do concede that I'm not going to have a biological child and then move on to adoption that I will feel truly content with it and believe that it is my best choice, even if it wasn't my first choice.

Pet Ponderings

I have a friend whom I've known since middle school and who still lives in my hometown.  We have managed to stay in touch all these years, and I heard from her last week.  She has been struggling with infertility for years, and I was sorry to hear that she still hasn't had any luck having a baby.  However, she did have some good news:  she recently got a puppy.  Her husband thought it might perk her up to have a pet to "mother," and it has.  The dog is certainly no replacement for a baby, and was not intended to be, but it brings joy and livens up their house.

I once had someone suggest to me, during the course of my continuing attempts at parenthood, that maybe it might be helpful for me to get a dog (again, not to replace a baby, but to cheer me up and provide me with something to nurture).  Actually, I would LOVE to have a dog and also a cat, for that matter.  Unfortunately, I can't.

Yes, that's right; I can't seem to have a baby, and I can't have a dog or cat, either.  I now have asthma and allergies to a degree that living with a dog or cat in my house truly is not an option.  Yes, I take preventative medication and yes, I have taken allergy shots, but the choice still literally is breathing vs. cat or dog.  Even though I'm a big animal lover, I'll take breathing, thank you.

However, I did not develop allergies and asthma until somewhat later in childhood, so I know what I'm missing.  When I was very young, we had a small dog that I have vague happy memories of, and a few years later, we had two cats that I absolutely loved.  Even when it got to the point that I couldn't live in the house with a cat or dog, we lived in out the country where we were able to have cats that split their time between going outdoors and hanging out in their own little digs in our heated garage.  I adored those cats with their silky purring, silly antics, and unconditional love. 

But my allergies have gotten worse as I have gotten older, so now (barring a medical breakthrough) there will be no cats or dogs for me.

HOWEVER, I am happy to say that I still am able to have a wonderful pet!

Miraculously, I am not allergic to birds--not one bit, not even a smidge.  A bird would not have been the first creature that I would have thought of as a pet, but it's been a great option for me.

For the past six years I have shared my home with a little yellow cockatiel named Chloe.  She has a huge personality in a little body.  Every day when I get home from work she is beside herself with excitement, chirping and running back and forth on her perch.  As soon as I open her cage door, she hops out for her daily routine. 

First she sits on my finger and makes a little clucking sound, then she gets cranked up and whistles the theme song to the "Andy Griffith Show," which she picked up from the TV.  Because I make a fuss over her when she sings it, which she loves because she is a ham, it has become her trademark song.  She later tucks her head down towards her chest, which is a signal that she wants me to pet her and scratch her neck.  After that, she likes to preen and fluff herself.

I had no idea that birds could be so friendly and relational.  I could go on and on about how interesting she is.  The only negatives about having her for a pet are that (1) she can't be housebroken (although that's not really a problem, because even though her wings are not clipped, when she is out of her cage she only wants to sit on me, so I just keep paper towels underneath her) and (2) she has pair bonded with me to the extent that she is jealous of my husband, which is fairly normal bird behavior.

The positives of having Chloe far outweigh the negatives, though.  She is cute, loving, and entertaining.  No matter how down in the dumps I am, it always makes me smile when she sticks out her chest and earnestly belts out the "Andy Griffith Show" song. 

Chloe has been a constant, cheerful presence during my miscarriage years.  Somehow, her simplicity helps to keep things in perspective for me, and she reminds me of the Emily Dickinson poem, "Hope is a bright thing with feathers."  I consider her a little blessing from God.

So, although I can't have a cat or dog, things have worked out just fine for me on the pet front, and for that I am thankful.