The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

It has been a really hard week.  A hellish week, actually.  In fact, I can’t remember a more challenging time since DJ was a newborn – and that’s saying a lot.  We are sleep-deprived, which I believe is just another term for “clinically insane.”

Just when I was celebrating the fact that DJ had finally started sleeping through the night, in her own bed, without me – she decided to give up naps.  I had all but corked a magnum bottle of Veuve to commemorate the nine nights of bliss, when DJ moved me to tears rather than drunken hiccups of glee.    Last week, she refused to take a nap five days out of seven.  And let’s face it, what I’m really trying to say is that I had five days without ANY time to myself.  Zip, zero, zilch.  That’s enough to make even the strongest, most gracious and passionate mother crumble to her knees.  Which I did.  A lot.  My husband felt so sorry for me, that he even brought home this “Nap-Strike Wellness Kit.”  (He’s a really good catch).

If you’ve been following my posts, then you know that sleep has been the bane of my existence since DJ was born (well, before that if you count the sleepless nights I spent on the couch as a heifer in the heat of August, 2009 while I was nine months pregnant).  But, it’s one of those chicken or egg phenomenon’s – I’m not sure if our lack of tough love surrounding sleep issues caused DJ to be a bad sleeper, or if our sensitivity to DJ’s bad sleep issues caused us to soften up.  In any case, I am tired of defending our choices and so, here I am saying it out loud for the first time ever – my daughter is not perfect (and we certainly aren’t either, but I make no qualms about that).  Every time someone sees her radiant smile and says, “She sure is happy,” I always respond with, “She’s a really sweet girl.”  And then, in my head, I say, “unless you’re trying to put her to bed, and then she turns into a freakin monster.”

I have talked with sleep consultants and pediatricians, and they all assure me that DJ is just fine, that not all children sleep as well as every single other child that I know, will outgrow this, and seems to be perpetually on the verge of some supposed development milestone.  At this point, I am waiting for her to wake up singing “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” while doing cartwheels.  How about her next developmental milestone be one that focuses on healthy sleep patterns?  That would be good.

Anyhow, things were looking up yesterday.  She actually took a two-hour nap, during her “regular” naptime.  I used the time to shower, shave my legs, blow dry my hair, put on makeup and even watch part of a daytime drama movie.  Man, I felt spoiled (and clean!).  However, as I am quickly learning, we certainly can’t have too much of a good thing – so of course, last night was a real doozey.

DJ rolled around the guardrail, and fell out of her bed at 3:00 am.  She woke up in a panic (totally understandable), but then spent the next hour-and-a-half fussing (incomprehensible, right?).  She wasn’t hurt in any way – the bed is low to the ground, the floor is carpeted, and her noggin seems downright indestructible.   But nothing, and I do mean nothing, would make her happy.  At one point, as I was rocking her, she started pointing to her changing table saying, “Pee-Pee.”  In the midst of my frustration, I actually had a proud moment, “Wow,” I thought, “Now she’s telling me when she needs her diaper changed.”  So, I laid her on the changing table only to find out through heightened screaming, that she was actually pointing at her bedroom door saying “Eeety, Eeety,” her word for “Kitty.”  Oh right, because every kid should be allowed to play with their pet kitty at 4:00am.  NOT.

Once she realized that we were not going to be letting Eeety into the bedroom, DJ started calling for “Dada,” then “Papa,” then “dah-ee (doggy),” and finally hoping her “Pahdee (pacifier)” would rescue her from her cries.  Just as I put Pahdee in her mouth, she sneezed, and Pahdee launched across the room and vanished into the darkness.  Well, that was it, the straw that broke my little camel’s back.  We had to turn on the lights, find Pahdee, and then start the calming process all over again.  I didn’t crawl back into my own bed until 4:47 am.  So awesome.

DJ is napping as I write this blog.  It took me 40 minutes to get her down.  I made four separate trips into her bedroom to put her back into her bed (which makes me wonder if she really fell out of bed last night, or if her determined and independent little self climbed out).  I sang about 17 different lullabies, and even attempted to let her cry-it-out (which is, conveniently, when she dismounted from her mattress).  She’s now been asleep for one hour.

One hour is not enough time to write a blog (my passion), read my February issue of Martha Steward Living, check Facebook and have an actual, adult conversation with my husband on a Sunday afternoon.  However, I will take one hour over none – and will still take my child’s imperfections over any other child’s prodigy.  God, just give me the strength (and rationality) to remember that I said, and mean, that.

It’s been an interesting week. So we were supposed to have sex on day 13, 14, 15, which would be my “ovulating days.” That is, if all went well. I really hope that this clomid is working. I know that this is only the first month and first dose, but I want to have a baby by next year.

Anyways, having sexy wasn’t a problem, since of course, we love it. It’s just funny, having to do things right during sex. Doctor recommended:

1. Missionary position
2. After ejaculation, immediately keep a pillow underneath and your legs slightly higher, to keep the sperm inside you, at least for 7 minutes.

So we’ve been doing that. I feel like an idiot lying there naked with my legs in the air with pillows under my touche. My husband sits there and laughs at me. I tell him, ” just be glad you don’t have to do this.” It was kind of a work out. New yoga pose? I laugh.

I’m researching and their are a lot of message boards where folks say that it can be as fast as the first month, but if you’ve tried 3 months, then its probably time to try a different method. Only time will tell at this point, but in all honesty, I don’t have time. If this doesn’t work out we may just do the artificial next month. Why not? It’s only $78 for our copayment. We shall see…let’s hope that my period doesn’t come and it doesn’t come for a good reason.

“I cry because being a mother is such a privilege.  I cry because I forget that it is a privilege.  I cry because I love my children so.  I cry because I want to love them more.  I cry because I sense in my soul that this love transcends all my understanding.  I cry because I am humbled to be the vessel entrusted with their care.” – Angela Thomas

When I read this quote last week, it really spoke to me.  It perfectly describes how I feel about motherhood (and sort of illustrates how my perpetually imbalanced hormones make me break down and cry all too often).  Mothering is an emotional job that creates an inexplicable bond with a tiny person, and awakens a love so deep within our hearts that we are frequently moved to tears.  Mothering is filled with ups and downs, triumphs and insecurities, joy and confusion, celebrations and fears – but mostly, it’s filled with transformational goodness.

I have been really in love with motherhood lately.  I feel like I have crossed over into the Land of the Content.  I have finally made peace with my job as a stay at home mom, and I have become really proud of the special role that I’ve grown into.  I have learned to appreciate the value of what I’m doing on a daily basis, and I have accepted that no matter what others believe – raising a child is truly the hardest job on earth.  I have stopped worrying about my previous life as an administrative assistant at an incredible company, and how important that I thought I was there. I have even stopped lamenting over the loss of my very own paycheck (though I was tempted to go there today as I was admiring my friend’s new boots).  The point is, I think that my identity crisis is over, and I am pretty cool with the woman who I’ve become over these past 17 months.  Amazingly enough, this peace about my current career choice, along with my acceptance of self, has given me the ability to be a better mom.

On Friday, my husband pitched a spontaneous plan.  He suggested that we take a day trip to Tahoe on Saturday, and introduce DJ to the snow.  I jumped on board with his idea, although, what he didn’t know (until reading this) is that I wasn’t feelin’ it AT ALL.  First of all, I am not a snow person.  Secondly, I don’t really dig road trips.  And finally, I now know that nothing’s truly spontaneous in the life of a mom – so there was a lot to plan within the next 24 hours.  There were snow boots to buy, laundry to do, snacks to pack, and toys to bring.  Ugh – there went my Friday.  Anyhow, I said “Yes.”  Yes to six hours of driving for one hour of play.

My job, as DJ’s mom, is to help create (and preserve) a childhood full of discovery, wonder, and adventure.  My job, I am realizing, is to say “Yes” more often.  I need to say yes to the things outside of my comfort zone if they are ultimately good for DJ (this can mean playing in the snow, or it can mean bearing yet another afternoon at the park with that super annoying nanny who’s always there chasing her poor kid around forcing grapes into his mouth – but I digress).  It’s about saying yes to the things that require more of my own time, for the benefit of creating quality time (memories) with my family.  Heck, sometimes it’s even about saying yes to ice cream for dinner, yes to eating Goldfish crackers in the bath tub, or even yes to finger painting without a smock (now we’re gettin crazy!). It’s just about saying yes more often.  It’s about being a grounded, disciplined, consistent mom who’s also confident enough to do radically spontaneous and fun things now and again.

Just say yes.  Say yes, and feel the tears well up in your eyes as you watch your children squeal with delight.  Whatever excites them, whatever charges them, whatever interests them, whatever makes them laugh, whatever makes them feel important and loved, whatever deepens your connection to them – just say yes.  Excusing yourself from the rules and routines once in a while is so liberating – and that freedom will make you a better mom.  I promise.

I cry because being a mom is so ridiculously cool.  I cry because most people look at me these days and think that I am not cool.  I cry because I yearn for just one more hour to myself.  I cry because I can’t bear to be away from DJ for too long.  I cry because my back hurts after six long hours in the car.  I cry because the pictures of my daughter touching snow for the first time are priceless.

So my period came on the 8th day instead of the 7th, which was weird. My doctor finally got back to me and said that it was normal. I swear, me and my period are having war. I’m supposed to be taking my clomid on day 5-9.

I was doing some research and found that “about 25% of female factor infertility involves a problem with ovulation, and clomiphene citrate, as a fertility drug, is easy to use (taken as a pill, not an injection), with not too many side effects, is pretty inexpensive compared to other fertility drugs, and is effective in stimulating ovulation 80% of the time.” (http://infertility.about.com/od/infertilitytreatments/a/clomid101.htm).

That’s good to know and to know that I’m not the only one out there. I just hope that this works. I know that the doctor wanted us to try this a few rounds and them up the dosage and then try artificial inseminating before in vitro, but I might try this for another month and if not, do the artificial. I got an awesome comment from a reader in my last blog, when I was talking about the different methods. I am feeling a bit anxious and want it now. I don’t want to wait 3 months and then up the dosage again for 3 month and then do artificial, I mean that’s like almost another year and a half!

Do you remember many blogs ago, I was trying this “twin diet?” That was ridiculous but look what clomid can do:

“The side effect you’re probably most familiar with is the risk of multiples. You have a 10% chance of having twins when taking Clomid, but triplets or multiples of more are rare, happening less than 1% of the time.”

Wow…10%. That is huge..I am almost tempted to double the pills or ask my doctor to increase the dosage! Just kidding.

Here is the flipside:

“Clomid will jumpstart ovulation in 80% of patients, and about 40% to 45% of women using Clomid will get pregnant within six cycles of use.

Using Clomid for more than six cycles is not generally recommended. If six cycles go by, and pregnancy is not achieved, other alternatives may be considered.”

Again, 6 months is not in timeframe. I plan to try this this month and the next month and then artificial insemination it is. I would prefer to just do the artificial but the husband said no. He wants to try this method, but with our awesome insurance, its only $78? Will have to try to convince him.

No, I’m not referring to the hilarious movie that was 17 Again, but rather the fact that my youngest child, Megan (your favorite POP columnist of Life As A Teen) turned 17 yesterday.

After reading The Mommies Diaries blogger Rebecca’s post There is a light at the end of the tunnel… it made me think about how little time I have left with Megan at home with me.

Time moves on and our lives take on different paths and choices present themselves to us.  In this case, Total Teen Dad has started considering what life will have in store for him once his last child heads off to college.

Rebecca asks how others have handled this choice.  I have looked at my past and decided to pursue old dreams I put on hold and a new one.  Life is full of opportunites and I see this as one of them.

Oh to be 17 again.  Megan has her whole life ahead of her.  I want her to see the paths and choices that present themselves to her as opportunities too.  After all, the world is an open book.  And we ALL have plenty of time to read and write it.

This was not the post I intended to write today. I was going to write about the joys and pitfalls of carpooling. And yet, I just can’t. I have to write this instead. The truth is I’ve been writing this post in my head for the past few days, weeks, months even. Somehow writing it in my head gets me through some hard moments. But it’s time to actually get it out of my head, stop hiding and write it.

I’ve just finished reading Love Walked In by Marisa De Los Santos. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, but the writing was lovely and I certainly enjoyed it. I went back and read this particular passage several times. It’s describes the thoughts of a step-mother type figure comforting a child who’s mother has gone a little nuts and is missing.

I sat up and rubbed her back with the circular motion I’ve always found soothing. After a while, she put her head in my lap and said, “I want my mommy.”

I thought about those words, how they contained so much more than they seemed to contain, more than any four words could hold. They meant what they meant and were also a universal cry, maybe the universal cry for comfort. Soldiers in the heat of battle; death-row prisoners; explorers stranded in deserts, jungles, on montaintops; anyone sick or lost or just tired and bewildered: we all wanted our mothers. I thought about my own mother — straight-backed, eternally smiling, never without tissues, Band-Aids, lipstick, aspirin, optimism, and reassurance. Mothers — why didn’t they all collapse under such weight? I shivered.

It speaks to me, that passage. That is how I have felt these past few days (weeks? months?). I want to collapse under the weight of motherhood. I’m overwhelmed. There are moments when it’s just too much to take on three other people’s problems and needs.

I have been in the trenches of mothering for a little over eight years now. Eight years of meeting the daily, hourly, by the minute needs of three little people. My kids who I love and adore and cherish, sometimes make me want to collapse under the weight of their needs. And then I want to collapse under the weight of the guilt that comes along with wishing they would just go away for a day and give me a little peace and quiet.

For eight years I have been alone with them from the moment they wake up until bedtime. My husband leaves for work at 6am and when he is not traveling, sometimes makes it home in time for dinner and sometimes in time to tuck them into bed. Everything that falls between waking up and tucking back into bed is all me. I realize I am far from the only woman out there who is walking this road. But that does not make my exhaustion any less valid.

This morning I did nothing but snap at them. Get dressed. Get your books. Why are you not brushing your teeth? Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? I don’t care if you don’t want hot lunch, I don’t feel like packing a lunch this morning. I needed them to be out of the house. I needed some quiet. I just want to get dressed without 338,393 interruptions!! Is that too much to ask?!?!

As I opened the door of the car and they piled out and off to school I immediately felt like crap. Why couldn’t I just suck it up and make the morning pleasant? I’ve had more moments like this lately than I care to admit.

But I am also no dummy. I know these days are fleeting. Already I miss the days of strollers and toddlers and sandboxes. I know I should soak up every moment of being a mom to a five year old and two eight year olds. It will be over in a flash and the grocery store aisles will fell lonely without someone asking me every five seconds if we can buy Frosted Flakes.

So I try to remind myself of this when my patience is wearing thin and I start to snap. Not always an easy thing for me to do. I’ll do my best to make these days ones we will all remember with fondness as the best of times. I know my time will come.

Three and a half year ago, we got the results of our amnio that confirmed that our little girl was INDEED packing an extra 21st chromosome.  That meant that there was going to be three tiny people under the age of three in our house who all had special needs of one kind or another.  Three babies that needed extra classes, extra doctor’s appointments, extra therapy and all kinds of extra patience on top of all the other stuff that all kids need (food, naps, clean diapers,….).  

I suddenly had a mental picture of the next several years as a tunnel stretching ahead of me.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel, but it seemed very, very far away. I knew that once the baby arrived my life was going to be very different than what it had been up until this point.  Not so much because she was different (we had done different already with the adoptions) but because the day to day structure of my life was about to change drastically.  So many kids with so many appointments.  I was going to have to figure out how to be in more than two places at a time.  I was going to have to figure out how to parent AND be the team leader.  I needed to be the one who coordinated all the doctors and therapists and keep track of papers (not my strong point).   I dreaded all the car seats to be buckled and unbuckled EVERY SINGLE TIME I wanted to leave the house. I feared the grocery store (when you have three kids in the cart, where exactly do you put the groceries?).  I would just tell myself “It is going to be a marathon for three years, but it is just three years” That seemed both long and short at the same time.

When Ace was born, Tiny still didn’t walk or talk, so I essentially had two babies. That made going places a bit trickier than it used to be.  Just so you know, when you take two babies out in public and one of those babies is black and has a giant afro and the other one is so fair she is almost clear and has Down Syndrome, there is no such thing as a “quick” trip anywhere.   I contemplated wearing a sandwich board that said “Yes, they are both my real children. No, we didn’t think about terminating the pregnancy.  Yes, I am sure your mother/friend/cousin knew someone with Down Syndrome who once bagged groceries.  No, she wasn’t born addicted to drugs”    We became a walking freak show. Strangers all had questions and often stopped to ask them.  I actually didn’t mind that part so much; I really think that our family has a chance to educate those that we meet.  To help dispel the common misconceptions. But when you haven’t slept in three nights and you really just want milk and diapers and have already wrestled with the car seats (wow, I really hated those car seats, didn’t I?) I didn’t want to talk about prenatal testing or adoption or how I take care of all that hair, I just wanted to go home.    

I hired an amazing nanny and we slowly rebuilt the structure of our days. We mostly were able to divide and conquer with the kids.  We took turns with the classes and therapies so that we both had an idea of what each kid was working on.  Before long it felt like this is what we had been doing all the time. There was lots of time in the car and lots of podcasts to keep me busy on the drives.  iPhones and apps came out during this same time, and I am not ashamed that I MASTERED both Peggle and Angry Birds in record time while I spent hours in waiting rooms.  I met other parents who have become lifelong friends.  I got to see up close and personal how other families structure their days. I was privileged to know the many professionals who have dedicated their working lives to helping our kids acquire the skills they will need to be happy and healthy adults.  Even the hard kids, like my son.  The ones who don’t smile all the time and act adorable. 

Today was the last big step before I totally exit that three year tunnel.  It is the day I signed the paperwork for my baby to get started with the school district for all her therapy and schooling needs. We are graduating from the Early Intervention program and are launching into the school district.  This means that they will mostly be responsible for structuring her days.  She will have special preschool and most of her therapies will happen during these school hours.  Cubby and Tiny have already graduated to that level.  When Ace goes, all my “special” kids will be getting most of what they need at school, during school hours.  There will still be the occasional appointments and other typical afterschool activities, but my mornings are going to be empty of all the racing and racing I have been doing for three years.   

Three years ago I knew it would be a marathon,.  I remember my mantra “it’s only three years and then everything will go back to normal”.  Three years are over and I am at the end of the tunnel and I can’t remember what normal is anymore.  I can’t remember how to interact with people who DON”T share a common OT or PT.  I forgot what it feels like to be identified as myself and not as the mother of tiny-who-was-a-preemie or Ace-who-has-Down-Syndrome.     I have let old friendships (and new ones) go without  fully embracing them because there wasn’t enough time or energy to do it all.  I used to dream about this day, and now that it is here, I feel just as out of place on this side of the tunnel as I did at the beginning.  

The special needs aspect of our family is not going to go away, but it will not be the main focus or what takes up the bulk of my time every day.  It will just be relegated to the after school hours.  I am a little bit excited and a little bit scared.  It means there is no longer an excuse not to get everything finished during the day (what if it really ISN’T possible to have all the laundry done at the same time?). It means that I might have some free time to finally do all the things I haven’t though about for a few years (exercise, having lunch with friends, pick up my sewing classes again…).   I thought I would be more relieved than unsure.  I have to figure out what this new phase of my identity is.  So there you have it.  I am at the end of the tunnel and I have no idea what path lays ahead of me.  Just like every other phase of my life.  

Has anyone else hit that point? Any advice?  Also, I will apparently be free for lunch for the next few years, so give me a call.  I’d LOVE to go.

It’s starting to happen.  She’s only 16 ½ months old, and it’s already happening.  DJ is encountering bullies at the park, and even took a stab at clenching the title herself last week.  Maybe it was the naivety of being a first time mom, or maybe it was the topic of bullying saturating daytime TV on laughable shows like “Maury,” but I never really allowed myself to believe that my kid would battle turf wars.  In any case, I’m sorry to say – it’s out there, and it’s real.  Kids can be cruel to one another, and there’s truly an art form to how parents nip it in the bud with their littlest ones (while they’re still inherently good, and well-intentioned!).

I take DJ to the park a few times a week. The park that I take her to is specifically designed for toddlers – it’s completely fenced in, has smaller equipment, and even a cushioned ground.  I usually feel pretty confident letting DJ explore while I stand by and watch from afar (yeah, yeah – a foot away!)  However, our recent park visits have been enlightening, to say the least.  I have learned how to handle bad behavior with incredible grace (a subject which, surprisingly, wasn’t covered in my “How to be a Good Mom” manual).

Several months ago, I had my very first encounter with another child acting aggressively toward mine. DJ was happily minding her own business, playing with tanbark, as an older (and thereby, bigger) boy came up and yanked her down to the ground by her tiny arm.  I was horrified, and I froze.  I didn’t know what to do.  Quite honestly, I wanted to kick the kid (I know that I shouldn’t have just admitted that), he shouldn’t have been in the toddler park to begin with! I wanted to yell at him and tell him what a big jerk he was.  It was a true intercession from heaven above that forced me to instead scoop up DJ and hug away her tears of confusion.  Mind you, this all happened within 2 seconds – and just as I was lifting DJ to my arms, Super Nanny came soaring onto the scene.

She was incredible.  She knelt down beside the little boy and put a tender arm around him.  She quickly explained that what he did was not OK, and asked him to describe why he pulled DJ down.  With his gaze fixed on the ground, he stood still – but she pressed on, “Why, Mi Amor, would you do that?”  She called him “my love.” In the midst of disciplining him, she displayed such admirable compassion, and I was deeply moved.  He finally said, “I wanted to kiss her.”  “You needed to ask her mommy if you wanted to kiss her.  Now, you look at her, and you look at her mommy, and you apologize, Mi Amor.”  It took him a few seconds, but he apologized.  Super Nanny gave him one last hug, gave DJ a knowing smile, and walked away with full confidence that kids will be kids, and that hers had learned a lesson.  DJ’s tears stopped, as if she knew that we had just experienced a sweet lesson about genuine mercy.  (And boy, was I glad that I hadn’t kicked that kid!).

Last week, my kid was the bully at the park.  She was cruising around like she owned the joint.  Who was this kid? My charming, angelic, and gregarious child was pushing other kids down to the ground left and right.  She was ripping sand toys from their little hands, and pushing strollers aggressively toward the sand pit as if they were totaled Cadillacs sentenced to a junkyard.  To say that I was mortified was an understatement.  I felt the pit in my stomach grow larger each time I had to apologize to a fellow mother.  I was so scared that they’d think I was a bad mother who wasn’t committed to teaching DJ manners.  What would they think of me?

Then, I briefly remembered Super Nanny, and channeled her prowess as a referee.  She wasn’t worried about my opinion of her at all.  She was instead worried about setting a good example for the boy in her care.  While DJ doesn’t yet have the language skills to form an apology, much less the reasoning skills to express why she was acting out, she is absolutely watching everything that I do.  So I had to quickly figure out my version of extending grace in those (embarrassing) moments.  I knelt beside DJ, and corrected her behavior in words that she could understand (which, lets face it, sounded a lot like “No”).  I looked into the sad eyes of her “victims” while saying “She’s really sorry for <insert bad behavior here>.”  I’d then apologize to the child’s mother, hug my daughter and assure her that I still loved her very much.  It felt so much more productive then being kicked, or called a jerk!

While Super Nanny may never know the positive impact that she made on me that day, or the ways that she has made me a better mom – I will always be grateful to her, and I will always strive to pay that example forward.  When I stop and think about the true definition of mercy; compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm – I realize that this lesson reaches far beyond motherhood.  It has been a lesson in humanity, really.  There will always be version of bullies in our lives, and people whose behavior (choices, beliefs, lifestyles, etc) we don’t agree with, but I trust that we are required to extend mercy, grace, forgiveness and love to those people.  Little eyes are always watching.

Why doesn’t anything go right for me? I was all giddy and on the right track and on progesterones. I’m only supposed to be on it for 7 days. 7 days passed and nothing, no period. It was Saturday evening and I didn’t know what to do. My doctor doesn’t work the weekends and I know that he wouldn’t even be able to get back to me via email until Monday. No period, 7 days, no one to talk to..what to do?

Do I just take the progesterones even though they said 7 days or do I just don’t take it? I made the same mistake when I was on birth control pills the last time I was on it again. Before my wedding, I wasn’t on birth control pills and everything was NORMAL..I had my period, I was ovulating, everything was dandy, but I really messed things up. I had forgotten what it was like to be on the pill and most important “TAKE IT EVERY DAY AT THE SAME TIME.” STUPID ME! I would take a pill at 9 AM and then the next day, I didn’t want to worry about it later on that night, so I would take it like around 8 AM. HELLOOOO! Hormones take 24 hours and stuff go on, almost like time released hormones, and here I am taking it whenever. There was even a few, not once, or twice, but a FEW times where I missed 3 days and the box said to dispose of it after 2 days of missing it, but I just swallowed 3. I know I know..you are all probably thinking that I am nuts. I know..I am! I am the one that brought this whole infertility thing on myself. I totally didn’t know that all of this would happen, you know. That and also being 30 already.

“Women in their thirties will experience a decline in their fertility such that the fertility rate per month is about 15%. ” (http://www.socalfertility.com/age-and-fertility.html) Check out the cool chart I found from http://www.advancedfertility.com/age.htm:

Pretty cool, huh. I found it interesting. Anyways..back to my dilemma. I decided that I would not make the same mistake, so I didn’t take it. On the 8th day..TA-DAH! My period came! I swear, it’s like this ongoing battle with me and my period and me and my eggs. I am telling you..I WILL WIN THIS!!

Way back in September during the first few weeks of school on a random Thursday, my phone rang.  I immediately recognized the number for my children’s school and like every parent, went into panic mode.   Who fell off a slide?  Did my son forget his lunch?  Does my daughter have another bloody nose that won’t stop?  It was none of the above, it was much worse.  I heard my daughter’s voice on the other end of the line.  “Mom,” she said, “we had a fire drill today and I stepped in dog poop on the lawn.  Can you bring me some new shoes?”

Oh crap.  Literally.  I grabbed a fresh pair of shoes and headed down the road.  I was annoyed.  When I got to school and entered her classroom, the teacher was no where to be found.  It turns out she was outside cleaning dog s*#% off of the other children’s shoes who could not get ahold of their parents to bring them a new pair.  Then I was more than annoyed.   I’m sure when Ms. V was getting her teaching credential she envisioned herself shaping young lives, not spraying Lysol on their sweaty sneakers.

My kids like to tell me the news of the day the moment they jump into my car after school.  Each one has a slightly different version of how their day went and the most exciting thing that happened.  Last week though, they were all on the same page.  They all recounted for me how they had to conduct Spanish class in a cold corner of the cafeteria sitting on the floor because another student had stepped in dog s*#% and the regular Spanish classroom smelled terrible for the entire day.  Now I am just furious.  After speaking to a few other parents, there are dozens of these stories, all involving dog doo doo on the school field.

I like dogs.  I really, really do.  We had a dog up until my twin girls were about two years old and he started to growl and snap at them when they walked around with food.  He clipped one of them right next to her precious little eyeball once and we found him a lovely home on a farm in Montana with a family who had no small children.  My husband still misses him and probably holds a grudge against me, even six years later, for making him chose between his daughters and his dog.

But do you know what I liked least about having a dog?  That’s right, picking up his s*#%.  But I did it, because it was my dog and that is the right thing to do.  I understand it’s no fun and I also understand that sometimes you are chatting with someone at the dog park and you don’t even notice that your dog did his business.  Mistakes happen.

We live in a highly residential area and there is one park in our small town that is way up in the hills.  The three elementary schools in our town provide the only large, open spaces to throw a ball around for a dog that needs his exercise.  Of course, I never see dogs at school during school hours.  But once the small hand is on the three and big hand is on the twelve, it’s a pooch party on the field at school.  There are usually no less than 5 or 6 dogs there at a time from 3pm until dark.

There are very few houses in my neighborhood that do not have a backyard of some sort.  I know taking your pet to a place where you and your furry companion can socialize is important to some.   However, I really, really wish that place wasn’t my kids elementary school.

I don’t have a dog because I don’t want to open the back door first thing in the morning in the winter to let a dog outside.  I don’t want to have to clear the yard of dog crap every time my kids want to play outside in the summer, which is every single day.  I spent five plus years changing diapers and potty training small children and I would like at least ten years of not worrying about someone else’s excrement.

If you are going to take Fido to an elementary school for his daily ball chase, please, please, please pay attention and pick up after your dog.  I’m going to go even farther and say I don’t think dogs should be allowed on school property, ever.  Teachers should focus on reading, writing and arithmetic — not Lysol and s*#% removal.