A visit to Clinic One.

I woke up to the sound of our alarm clock, early enough on a fall morning that our room was still completely in the dark.  I squinted as I rooted through the laundry basket of clean, unfolded clothes: hoping desperately that the clothes I grabbed would both fit and vaguely match.  Then I stepped out into the cold and headed downtown to Clinic One.

Yes, this was this morning.

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For those of you TTC (or trying to avoid it)…

A more inclusive cycle tracking tool is now available!

From the little I can see, it still seems to assume the type of sex folks are having.  Regardless, if I still had a cycle to track, I would appreciate a tool that doesn’t involve various pastels and unfortunate euphemisms.  And I would really love to set an app, any app, to “sex mode”.


Fruits and vegetables.

(Alternate title: “There’s an app for that.”)

When I found out that Bingo was working on cell division, one of my first acts was to download every free pregnancy app that I could find.  I then moved on to websites and e-mail lists, signing up for updates with abandon.  Sea did her part as well, creating a series of tickers that would make even the most avid blogger green with envy.   Though I’ve pared down on the electronic stalking of our fetus quite a bit as the months have passed, I still receive several updates every week.

One of the primary features of most of these pregnancy tracking tools is a weekly size update.  As well as giving length and weight (which mean nothing to me), the tools provide a handy visual by comparing the zygote/embryo/fetus size to the size of a fruit or vegetable.  At first I found these comparisons charming: “Bingo is a blueberry! Now a raspberry!”  I would wander the aisles of the grocery store, smiling indulgently at the fruit or vegetable of the week.  Unfortunately, the comparisons quickly moved out of the aisles of my grocery store and into the realm of the obscure: “How big is a persimmon?  What is a persimmon, again?”  Now the comparisons have become completely illogical.  Take, for example, the past couple of weeks:

-Two weeks ago, a cheerful e-mail update informed me that Bingo was now the size of a loaf of bread.  I looked down at my stomach, totally unable to imagine how a full loaf of bread could be stored in there.  A small loaf, I decided, might fit.  I moved on.

-A week later, an app told me that Bingo had grown to the size of bok choy.  I happened to have some bok choy sitting at the back of my fridge, so I took it out and looked.  It was, as I suspected, smaller than any available loaf of bread.  It was barely the size of a reasonable sandwich.  Bingo had shrunk?

-This week, the apps and the e-mails agree: Bingo is the size of a pineapple.   Smaller than many loaves of bread, still, but bigger than the bok choy.   It seems that Bingo grew, shrunk, and grew again.

Despite my disillusionment with the size comparisons, I find something really great about the idea of Bingo as a pineapple– all prickly skin and sharp spears. So I’m holding on to the idea of Bingo the pineapple at 33 weeks, just hoping that next week’s updates don’t downgrade the kid to some flimsy melon or hairy coconut.

A conversation with two ten year olds.

Kid 1: Wait, you’re pregnant?

Me: Yes.

Kid 1: How?

Me:  I just am.

Kid 1: What did you get pregnant with?

Me: A baby, I hope.

Kid 1: No, with what man?  What man did you get pregnant with?

Me: I didn’t get pregnant with any man.

Kid 2:  (leaping up, in great excitement) I know!  I know!  She got pregnant with insemination!  That’s how my sister and I were made!  With insemination!

Mayhem and midwifery.

It had been five weeks since my last medical intervention.

After being cut loose from Clinic One at 12 weeks, I found myself anxious in the absence of regular blood draws and ultrasounds.  It’s true that I had my blood drawn twice during those five long weeks, but these tests were swift wam-bam-thank-you-ma’am blood lettings requisitioned by Clinic One and the midwife, Diet Coke.  Nothing more.  I was feeling a little twitchy.

So it was with some relief that I met up with Sea to head to the third visit with Diet Coke at the midwifery clinic last week.  Due to a hectic schedule, this was the first visit that Sea was able to attend.  She was nervous both about what the clinic would be like, and my ability to find my way there.  I scoffed in the face of her fear.  This was my third visit: I was an expert.


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The final dose.

Dear Progesterone,

We’re done.

I never expected us to get together in the first place, to be honest.  We came from different worlds, I knew you had a bad reputation, I just wasn’t that interested.

But then I found myself feeling low, and you appeared.  You got under my skin and promised that you would take care of me. I couldn’t resist: we fit together so easily.  Before I knew it, you were inside of me.  And then we were seeing each other every day.  Twice a day, actually.  Oh, I broke it off once or twice.  Went two weeks without you, even, but I always came back to you.

Our relationship got comfortable, you kept your promises, you made me feel safe.  But there was the other side, too.  You always wanted to see me, I had to take you everywhere, I always had to clean up your messes.

Maybe this doesn’t seem fair.  I know that you’ve done most of the work in this relationship.  I’ve ignored your issues for a long time, and you’ve taken care of mine.  But I’m not sure that I need you anymore.  I think I can make it on my own.

Oh, come on, don’t get all mushy on me.  You’ll be fine.  We’ll both be fine.  I’m moving on.  And as for you?  Well, you know where you can shove it.



The final shot.