AbbyGabs in April

Here we are, a brand new shiny month. This year is flying by already, and I've got so much stuff to look forward to in the coming months. April is a big one, and I thought you might like to know what's coming down the pike for me, my family, and my blog. So here's a peek at the first few weeks of my calendar for this month.

April 1, 2013:
Day one of Camp NaNoWriMo--the online support system for budding writers is at it again, and I'm jumping in with both feet.  And as usual, the 50,000 word count goal in 30 days is plenty enough to get my competitive juices flowing. I've managed to do it twice...and I happened to bang out a my very first novel by participating in NaNo 2011 and 2012.

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The real beauty behind Camp Nano is that, while you can start a brand new project, you're also encouraged to take that thirty days and do pretty much whatever you want to do (involving writing, of course.) Edit a past project, write poetry/blogs/short stories, work on a timeline for your next big idea---the point of Camp NaNo isn't just to write a new work. It's to write. Period. The End. That's All Folks.

I'm really jazzed about Camp, especially since I've not been writing nearly as much lately as I'm used to, and I'm missing it fiercely. So, I'm going to stoke my inner campfire, blow the dust off of my very first novel and edit the crap out of it every single day in April, in hopes that by the time I'm finished, it will be 100% publishable material.

You guys know the drill--I'll still be posting here as regularly as I can manage. I plan to set aside one day a week to write several blogs, and they'll all be scheduled to post while I'm doping up on coffee and popping aspirin to battle my keyboard-hunch back pain. And with you cheering me on, anything is possible! Hi ho, Hi ho, it's off to Camp we go!

April 3, 2013:
Appointment with my OB and fertility specialist.

I'm scared and excited and worried and nauseous and thrilled, all at the same time. We've waited years for this opportunity, and I'm *trying* to be hopeful that we will receive some helpful answers to solve our fertility problems. And since I cried all over you guys a couple of weeks ago in a blog about that very subject, it seemed only natural that I tell you about this latest development in our journey to become parents.

Don't worry, I'll keep you in the loop. Especially if there are hormone replacement drugs involved. Because they make me a little crazy, and more prone to film video blogs involving tears, snot, and smeared mascara. So stay tuned, friends. Stay tuned.


April 7, 2013:
The Inaugural Tournament of the Incredibly Excellent Wii Bowling League.

Yes, you read that correctly.

My ingenious husband finally figured out a way to cram our tiny apartment to the brim with practically every person we know within a thirty-mile radius---and all in the name of bowling. He created a Wii Bowling League, and we are having the first tournament at our house this weekend.

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There will be brackets, bowling-themed food, fierce competition, and trophies. (Yes, he bought trophies. Just like the one pictured above.) It's going to be epic, and we are hoping to turn it into a regular thing. Once we weed out the serious competitors from those more interested in the bowling ball cupcakes (yes, that would be me you're picturing with chocolate crumbs on her chin) we may just invent team names and create bowling shirts (which I will have to beg for, because I'll be the one losing on purpose so I can sit in the kitchen and chat with my friends between turns.) Don't worry, readers...there will be a full blog with pictures after the event. It's going to rock.

Sometime Mid-April:
I'm moving.

Not me, personally, but my blog. 

That's right, I'm making the leap from Blogger to Word Press. 

source--and also not the website I'm using to navigate my move. That's HERE.

It's been a long time coming, and I've been thinking about it, and planning for it, since the beginning of the year. I've finally convinced myself that I can do it without the help of a paid professional (although I'm considering asking my doctor for a prescription in Xanax). With the support of blogger friends who have done it before, a father-in-law who I'm convinced could fix the internet if it was completely broken, and pep talks with some of my favorite Word Press bloggers, I'm ready to make the leap.

If you'd like to send assistance in the form of tequila, email me and I'll send my mailing address.

April 10, 2013:
Abby hosts Dinner Club for the first time.

Back in January, two of our favorite couples contacted us and asked if we'd be interested in joining a dinner club. For those fuzzy on the details, it works like this: the host couple comes up with the theme and provides the entree. Couples two and three are in charge of the appetizer course and the dessert course, respectively. 

Truth: it's a great excuse to get together with our friends not once, but twice, to eat great food, drink great wine, and enjoy each other's company.

Most people, while in the planning stages of this event, would be focused more on coming up with a menu that will be pleasing to the palate, but will allow them to act as hostess and spend more time with their guests.

You read the part above about my "competitive juices" though, right?

I'm feeling very...."Barefoot Contessa" about our first club where I'm in charge of the culinary experience. As in...I have to rock this, and rock it hard.

Abby rockin' the kitchen, circa 2010.

I'm not looking to intimidate our friends and make them worry about the contents of their spice racks before the next dinner...much. I'm just looking for everything to be so awesome that we're still talking about "that first dinner club at Abby's house" five years from now.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm holding out hope for a gold ribbon of cooking genius. 

So that's what's going on with me, friends and neighbors. No huge announcements, just lots of little stuff to look forward to. What's going on in your neck of the woods? (Be forewarned: if it sounds like a good time I might just crash your party.)

Coping

Today's post is going to be raw, emotional, and probably painful for some of you to read. In truth, I started not to publish it. But this has been sitting with me for awhile now, and so I wrote it out in hopes that it would bring me some comfort and closure. I didn't write it to seek out sympathy, or to evoke any particular emotion for my readers. I simply wrote it for me. Any of you who have ever suffered with infertility will understand that sometimes, crying it out and exhausting all emotion is the only way to pick yourself and move on, to give yourself enough courage to take the next pill, the next shot, or the next test. That is what this post is for me.

I'm sitting in the bathroom floor, legs tangled beneath me. The towel I'm crying into smells of Brian's body wash. A nervous cat who managed to get closed into the bathroom with me sits by the door, tail twitching, waiting for a chance to escape. The digital pregnancy test still sits on the counter where I left it, the words "NOT PREGNANT" in stark analog print, breaking my heart again.

It's 4:30 in the morning.

Last night, we sat at the kitchen table, holding hands, the truth of the situation like ashes in my mouth. "I'm 15 days late," I say.

"I know," he replies.

Like a sorrow-filled waltz, we dance around the topic of conversation. He asks me if there are any signs of impending doom. I show him my ovulation calendar. We talk about the "peak fertile days" we managed to hit in the last month. Hope blossoms like spring flowers where one would think the roots were dead.

"Should I take a test?" I ask him.

"Maybe. But let's wait until morning," he replies.

And so we walk through the rest of the day, preparing meals and cleaning dishes, hugging cats and laughing at sitcoms, until the time for bed arrives.

As I brush my teeth, I rummage through the cabinets until I find what I'm looking for: a box of pregnancy tests, one left, waiting for the chance to make our dreams come true. I set it out, unwrap it, and stare at the blank screen, wondering what judgement it will have for me. I spit in the sink, and a spot of toothpaste lands on the digital screen. I wipe it away with my finger.

An hour later, my husband sleeps deeply beside me. I slide the bookmark between the pages of my current novel and turn out the light. My cat snuggles up on my chest, and I pet him while I think about what the morning might bring. So many possibilities. 

I try to keep myself from thinking it, but as usual, the laundry list of those possibilities begin to rattle off in my brain. If it's positive, I could have the baby by Christmas. If it's positive, I'll want to schedule an appointment with my doctor as soon as possible. If it's positive, I want to tell my parents first. If it's positive, I'll have the chance to tell Jenna in person this weekend. If it's positive, we'll have to do something about that middle bedroom. (I've always loved the idea of a Dr. Seuss-themed nursery.)

If it's positive, will it be a boy or a girl?

If it's positive, I will cry and laugh and dance and celebrate.

If it's positive.

I fall asleep with visions of round cheeks and tiny feet dancing in my head.

When I wake up with a full bladder at 4 a.m., my whole body comes to attention. I slide out from beneath the covers, leaving husband and cats undisturbed. I take a deep breath and do my duty, waiting the unbearable 2 minutes before allowing myself to read the screen of the pregnancy test.

And the new, more familiar laundry list of possibilities take over. If it's negative, I will not beat myself up for days on end. If it's negative, I will not let it ruin my week. If it's negative, I won't tell anyone about it, because I don't want people to feel sorry for me. If it's negative, and of course it will be negative, I will mark it on my calendar and move on.

If it's negative, I will mention it to Brian over breakfast and we won't talk about it anymore.

If it's negative, I will let myself cry, but only for a few minutes.

If it's negative.

I give myself ten minutes to mourn the baby that never was, and then I wrap the test, that thing, in toilet paper and throw it away. I toss the box and instructions away, too. I wipe down the counters, the sink, and the mirror just for good measure. I splash my face with cold water, blow my nose, and brush my hair. I never look at my reflection because I know I'll only see misery and regret. I turn out the light and open the door, freeing the trapped cat from the confines of his prison cell. I tiptoe back into the bedroom and ever-so-gently lower myself back into bed.

His voice pierces the night.

"Negative?" he asks.

"Negative." I reply.

And we wrap ourselves in each other and cope.

The Gift of Godchildren--Summer Series with My Pal Laverne, Part II

This blog came to me in fits and bursts over the past month, and I've been itching to publish it. But it was never quite complete. I'd poured my heart onto the empty white space, and yet I felt like something was missing. When Laverne and I decided to do a 3-part series this summer, this idea resurfaced while we were brainstorming blog ideas. There was never a moment of hesitation as I pitched my idea: I had the words, could she provide the artwork? There are few people in the world I would trust with such a precious subject matter, and Laverne is at the top of the list. And so, with a full heart, here is part two of our summer series.

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Excitement jitters just beneath my skin as we turn onto the curvy country road. The sun peeks through the tree limbs, and the horses in the pastures graze in the summer heat. Brian guides our car past farm houses and patches of forest, instantly knowing when to turn into the driveway. As many times as we've been here, I still don't know which house is Jenna's until we arrive.

Anxious for our day to begin, I leave bags and presents in the back seat and drag my husband to the back door. As soon as I step up onto the stoop, I see that she's been waiting, and is as eager for our arrival as we are.

She wraps me into a one-armed hug, and it's like no time has passed at all.

Bub peeks shyly from behind Jenna's leg, and I know he'll need a few minutes to adjust to new visitors. I crouch down to his level, keeping my distance, and reach out to ruffle his dark hair. "Hey, buddy," I say quietly. Noting the graphic on his t-shirt and hoping to draw him out, I say, "Is that a puppy dog on your shirt?" He glances down, long lashes brushing round cheeks, then looks back up, a big grin on his face. "NO!" he says with authority. "Flower!" And he bounds into the kitchen with the excitement only a 2 year old can possess. 

Brian and Jenna are sharing small talk about the weather, the drive, his schooling. I stand by quietly for a moment, fingers itching to hold Baby Girl. Jenna, sensing I'm there, hands me the baby without breaking the conversation. I welcome her weight with surprise. "Who's a big girl?" I croon. I look at Jenna, eyebrows raised. "It's only been 4 months! How can she already be this big??"

We settle in at Jenna's big dining room table, making plans for the day, talking about all we've missed in the last few months. 

In what feels like minutes, Bub gallops into the room and announces that he's hungry. Jenna checks the clock and, just like that, it's lunch time.

PBJ's, fresh fruit, and strawberry daiquiri pie are served with a quiet efficiency. Bub eats enthusiastically, occasionally breaking into baby babble, and even serenading his grapes with a rousing rendition of "Old MacDonald." 

After lunch time comes nap time, and we decide to load the kiddies into the car and let them sleep while we take a quick road trip a few towns over to visit with another family member. No sooner are we out of the driveway than Bub and Baby Girl are snoozing away. Conversation turns to more adult topics: work and life, future plans, bills, mortgages. 

And Buffy. Of course.

We arrive at our play date destination. 

I disappear to grab my camera and as I walk back into the laughter-filled room, my eyes land on Brian. He's holding Baby Girl, whispering something into her ear. 

Inside, I weep from the pain of being unable to provide him with this in his own life. I push it down, swallow the lump in my throat, and paste a smile on my face. There is time for tears later.

Our two hour play date comes quickly to a close, and it's time to load back into the car and head to dinner with Jenna's mom and step-dad. Bub is talkative this time, and so we sing, and we count, and we make animal noises. I glance up into my visor mirror to see Jenna plant a kiss on a squirming, giggling Bub. I laugh.

Dinner feels like a party. We drink margaritas, we share salsa and stories. 

I am simultaneously in the moment, and distracted by the beautiful baby sleeping in her car seat next to me. Bub sits across from me, eating his beans and rice with gusto. Jenna's husband, Reid, is finally able to join in the fun after a long day at work. 

Conversation turns to Brian, and questions are flying about his upcoming graduation, job prospects, what his future holds. I let their words fall away and turn my focus onto Baby Girl. Thinking no one is watching, I run my finger lightly over her little foot. I straighten her hair bow, and tuck a stray corner of blanket back into it's rightful place. Just a moment. I wanted just a moment with her. And when it's over, I rejoin the conversation. 

And the evening rolls on.

As we emerge from the restaurant, the sun and moon are struggling for possession of the sky. It's a three hour drive back to our house,

We drive Jenna and the kids back home. Gifts are exchanged, a few more pictures are taken, and it's time to take our leave. I hug and kiss each child soundly, knowing they'll have grown even more by the next time I get to visit. Brian and I fight over who hugs Jenna last. More waving, hugging, promises of future visits. And then it's just the two of us again, heading back toward home.

Our headlights pierce the darkness and the tears I've fought all day finally come. I cry because my best friend lives so far away. I cry because I'm so happy that we got this time together, however brief. 

It is nearing midnight when we get home. And still, I pull out the memory card from my camera, loading the pictures onto my computer screen. And Brian and I relive our day--all smiles and giggles and songs and love--before heading to bed.

Be Enough Me: It's That Time. Again.

We've been down this road before, more than once. Ovulation charts, fertility monitors, basal thermometers. The overwhelming sadness and defeat that comes with negative pregnancy tests. The wave of hope that comes with a new pill. The nights laying awake, imagining the moment when I can finally announce to the world that I am with child.


When Brian got sick in 2010, all those plans went on the back burner.  Birthing plans turned into survival plans. Daydreams about a tow-headed toddler were replaced with nightmares of losing my partner. The constant chirp-chirp-chirp of the monitors were for my husband, battling cancer, not for me, a new baby in my arms. Priorities were rearranged. The bottle of Clomid was shoved into the corner of the medicine cabinet, replaced with pain pills, stool softeners, vitamins and Scarguard. When your husband is fighting for his life, the last thing on your mind is where you are in your menstrual cycle.


Here we are, almost a year and a half after Brian's surgery, and that familiar yearning, that tug on my heart, that desperate desire to be a mother, has returned.


It never really went away. I've always wanted children, for as long as I can remember. We were distracted for awhile, by an ugly monster named Cancer, but that distraction is over. And now, the time to start over, to try again, has arrived.


As the end of the year approaches, and with it, Brian's graduation from nursing school, my anxiety increases. I point my browser to all those familiar websites, rereading articles on infertility treatments that I could already recite in my sleep. I find myself flipping through the pages of the numerous pregnancy books already on my shelf. My list of baby names has already started growing again. 


Every day, as I jog around our property, iTunes in my ear, my mantra has changed. No longer do I hear "breathe in, breathe out" as my feet pound the ground. Now it's "baby, baby." With every inch I lose, every pound I drop, I feel like I'm closer to my goal. Not to fit into a pair of jeans. But to get my body healthy. So I can carry a baby.


At least once a day I find myself standing in front of a mirror, hands on my stomach, lost in a daydream of "what if" and "when."


For now, the timing still isn't right. There are tests to be taken, finals to study for, and projects to complete. It gives me time to get myself ready--mentally, physically, emotionally--for the road we are about to travel again. To prepare myself for the roller coaster that goes with trying to get pregnant when you've failed so many times before.


For now, we proceed without the aid of doctors. No drugs, no treatments, no hormones. Just us. 


For now, I pour myself into the other children in my life. I am actively spoiling my godchildren...

...and I will continue to champion little Everett, until he is well and home with his family again.

For now, I am simply in the planning stages. Thinking over my strategies. Hoping beyond hope that we won't need medical intervention. Trying to stamp out my fear of failure and, ultimately, the inability to get pregnant at all. 


I will face my fears and start over. Again. Because I must. Because destiny tells me I must. And because this time, just maybe, we will be successful.

Be Enough Me: The Best Present Of All

Every year, when the turkey's gone, our bellies full, and the dishes done, I start to get that excited, fluttery feeling in my heart. I crave the smells of a Douglas fir, cookies fresh from the oven, wintery air that's frosty on my nose. My fingers itch to wrap presents, hang ornaments, and write cheerful holiday cards. I start my mornings with flavored coffees--pumpkin and cinnamon and peppermint. Bing Crosby, Elvis, and Harry Connick, Jr. serenade me on a daily basis.


It's Christmastime. My favorite time of year.

Every year, as the tree goes up in the stand, and the lights are untangled and wrapped around the boughs, there's a smile in my heart that can't be erased. Each tiny ornament has such significant meaning, it's a celebration as I unwrap each one. "Here's the one from the year we got married!" I exclaim. Or "This is the first one you ever bought for me!" And "Oh, I forgot about this one! Look, Brian! It's the silly kitty with the flowerpot on his head!"


Others hold more emotional memories: the white angel holding a kitten for the spring when Eddie died, the glass ornament with the cancer awareness ribbon bearing the date of Brian's surgery. These baubles bring tears to my eyes each time I see them.

Each ornament is placed on the tree with care. Silver balls and glass crystals are added as the perfect light catchers. The blue bow goes on top, and the snowy white tree skirt below. Now comes my favorite part. 


We turn off all the lights in the house, except the tree. We stand back, hand in hand, and just look. Music plays quietly in the background. A cat sniffs at a low-hanging branch, feigns indifference, and curls up beneath it instead. The blue lights are cool, bringing winter to our mild, warm climate. In silence we stand, contemplating. I'm sure Brian is looking at his handiwork, looking for gaps or blank spots, searching with his eyes to find an imperfection he can fix.

 My eyes fill with tears as I think about the child we are without again this year. My heart breaks a little more. My arms ache. I wonder if we'll ever have the chance to share all this love with a child of our own.


"What do you think? Should we add one more strand of lights?" my husband's voice rocks me from my reverie. I look at him, bathed in blue light, a smile on his face. My hearts swells, heals, fills. 


I know there will be a night sometime soon when I'm at home alone. I'll turn off all the lights, lay beneath the boughs of my Christmas tree, and weep: for the child that wasn't created this year, for the emptiness of my womb, for another Christmas gone by without the laughter of children to fill our home. That will be the night that I allow myself to feel those feelings I stamp down on most every other night of the year. 

But tonight? Tonight there is too much joy in this room to dwell on sadness. I sigh, wrap my arms around my husband, and say, "If we add many more lights, they'll be able to see us from the International Space Station."


"Isn't that the goal?" he jokes. And I silently thank the fates that I still have him in my life. My husband, my partner, my best friend...the best present of all.

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I Wish, I Wish, I Wish...

Lately, I've noticed that I spend a lot of my time wishing for things I don't have.

I whine to my husband about my weight. I bemoan the fact that I'm utterly underwhelmed by my job. I drown my friends in lamentations about my life in general. 


I mourn the child I've never carried in my womb.


I am wishing my life away.


One day I will wake up and realize that I've been neglecting all the wonderful things I do have while wishing for those things I don't have.


Like true love. Friendship. Family. Laughter.


Happiness.

I don't want to find myself sitting alone in a rocking chair somewhere, still wishing.


Wishing for more time with loved ones. Wishing for my youth. My health. Wishing I hadn't spent so much time wishing.


It is time for me to learn to live in the moment. Because as each moment passes, it is another that I'll never get back.

Letter To My Daughter

Dear Daughter,


As I write this, you don't yet exist. No matter how we yearn for you, imagine you in our arms, dream of you, you haven't arrived yet. I think about you everyday and wonder what your face looks like, what color your eyes are, whether your hair is curly or straight. I can imagine you with light blond curls and blue eyes as easily as I can imagine you with dark hair, straight--like mine. Maybe you'll even have a cowlick in the front like me. Maybe you'll have hair on your arms, like me. Maybe your fingers will be pudgy and short, like mine. Maybe you'll even have my nose.


You should feel pretty lucky to already be loved so much when you haven't even been conceived yet. I know your Daddy will spoil you rotten. He will teach you how to play video games, and how to fix a computer, and how to run from the tickle monster. I promise to teach you how to bake Mommy's Famous Cheesecake, and how to chop garlic, and how to spell "onomatopoeia" (I had to look it up just now, so I'll teach me first, then I'll teach you.) We will instill in you our love for animals, our dreams for our country, and probably our irrational (Daddy's word, not mine) fear of spiders. 


I have so many dreams for you, little girl. I dream for you a world where saving the environment is second nature, not a fad. I dream for you a society that accepts you just the way you are, whether you choose to wear dresses and ribbons and ballet shoes, or dirty cutoffs and baseball caps and sneakers. I dream for you a passion that will last you a lifetime--be it dancing or writing or reading or softball or painting or drawing or singing or whatever else you can think of. I dream for you a country that understands the value of education, where science and math are fun and important. I dream for you the courage to find beauty within yourself, no matter what the magazine covers say you should look like. I dream that you will find a love as big as the love I have for your Daddy, and that you can feel safe, cherished, and comfortable in it. My daughter, how I dream for you.


I have so many promises to make to you, little girl. I promise to only sing to you at bedtime as long as you think I have a beautiful voice--when you say it's annoying, I'll cry a little inside, but I promise I'll stop. I promise that we will laugh together more often than we will cry together, but when we do cry together, I will hold you up and stroke your hair and try to right the wrongs that hurt you. I promise not to freak out the first time you ask to paint your nails green, even though it will make you look like you have a fungus. I promise to teach you the alphabet game, where I draw the letters on your back with my finger, and you guess what they are. I promise to tell you the story of how I met your father, and how we fell in love, so you can learn all about healthy, strong, unconditional love. I promise that, no matter where your passion leads you, I'll be there in the front row, cheering you on louder than anyone else, with signs and balloons and maybe even a megaphone (this will embarrass you to the point of frustration, but I promise you, one day you'll understand why I was so excited.) I promise to teach you the words to "Inch Worm" and "Bushel and a Peck" and "You Are My Sunshine." I promise to let you lean on your Daddy when I wish you'd lean on me--I did that with my father and I know you'll do that with yours. I promise to be your Mom first, and your friend second. I promise I'll try my best not to embarrass you by showing your first boyfriend baby pictures of you, but I won't be able to help it because I have them framed all over the house anyway. I promise to love you, accept you, appreciate you, and never, ever take you for granted.


I can't wait for you to get here, little girl. Oh, how we'll laugh and play and sing and dance and live. I know that it may be awhile before we meet, and that we've already waited for so long. But when you think about the life we'll have together, doesn't it seem worth it? So, until we meet, my daughter, I'll keep dreaming of you.


All my love,
Mom

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