Down the rabbit hole

So, after two years of trying to get pregnant, then finally hitting the jackpot and carrying our little squish to term, our newest daughter was born on New Year's Eve via c-section.  It was a wonderful birth (compared to her big sister's arrival in the emergency version) and she was perfect - everything present and accounted for, her dark grey-blue eyes blinking in shock and awe at me from my chest, weighing in at 3.860kg (8 pounds, 8 ounces).  I was taken up to the ward, with my new daughter tucked under my blankets, with a grin from ear to ear.  I was absolutely elated.  She was here.  She was safe.

But things started to go downhill for us the following day when she wouldn't attach to breastfeed.  After trying to attach, my baby would get worked up and then fall asleep from the battle of trying to feed.  This went on for days with no help from the ward midwives because A) public hospital, B) public holiday period so skeleton staff numbers meant nobody had time, and C) being my second child, they figured I was fine.  But I wasn't fine.  My baby developed jaundice so was sleepy, lethargic and almost impossible to wake, which made our feeding/attachment challenges even harder, which in turn exacerbated her jaundice because she wasn't getting milk to help flush it out of her system - the only thing more difficult than trying to feed a newborn who can't/won't attach, is trying to feed one who keeps falling asleep!  I would keep trying, but was torn about whether or not to let her keep sleeping... because all newborns sleep a lot, right?  Right?  I would get upset and frustrated when she wouldn't attach despite her showing interest.  And she would get upset at not being able to get to what she wanted and would turn beetroot red, arch her back and stamp her little feet into my very tender tummy.  And we'd both be in tears.  And then we'd both give up and fall asleep. And around and around we'd go.

But on the afternoon of the fourth day, one midwife took charge of the situation and an anxious and engorged me, and told me to express and feed my daughter with a bottle of my expressed milk "because she's hungry, she's lost more than her 10%, you've got the milk so let's just get it into her".

"But she can't be that hungry because she isn't crying," I said, to try and reassure myself that we were really fine.

"Well, to a point," she replied.  "But newborns get to a stage where they just give up and will sleep."
Queue anxiety point #1 - my baby has given up trying to feed and is now sleeping until she dies!

Despite that 'throw-away' line, I am thankful that that midwife made a call that I was incapable of making at that stage - express every two hours and feed her that way - and we were able to go home from hospital the following day with that plan.  But in the wee hours of our first night at home, I remembered I had nipple shields from my first daughter that I never ended up using with her (and let me just say, I appreciate my oldest daughter's breastfeeding success so much more and on a whole other level now!), and she attached and was swallowing!  Cue choirs of angels!  No more bottles and pumps!

But a new battle was beginning.  She was still sleeping around the clock (11am to 7am the following day, I kid you not!), so we'd have to wake her every two hours to feed, but most times she wouldn't stir enough or long enough to either attach or feed for longer than a few minutes at best.  We would strip her off, wet her face with a washer, blow in her face, bath her and even putting ice cubes on her feet in an attempt to feed her!  She'd even do the same with a bottle, so it wasn't just my boobs!  One night we took her to the emergency room because we hadn't been able to wake her at all!
Queue anxiety point #2 - something is wrong with my baby because she won't wake up, and it's because she's not feeding enough to get better/stronger!

So despite her somewhat success at feeding from me with the shields, my anxiety started to grow around her feeds.  She was so sleepy all the time that she wasn't feeding often enough to be getting enough milk to flush out the jaundice, or to play catch-up on her weight gains. So she didn't have the energy to feed enough.  So she was sleepy all the time.  So she didn't have the energy to feed enough. And around and around and around.

Every feed that wasn't what I considered "successful" would have me in tears.  Every feed that she'd try to attach (even with shields) but couldn't/wouldn't because she was too tired, would send my anxiety skyrocketing, and I'd get angry at her and frustrated with both of us for not getting it right!  In the first two weeks, I had to put her in her bassinet twice after failed feeds because I was just too mad at her and myself.  Then I would collapse in tears and hysterics and rant and rave about how much I hated it all.  My poor husband tried to pick up the pieces - a wife sobbing on the floor, shaking, in the small hours of the morning.

"I don't understand!  Why won't she feed!?  I hate her!  I wish I'd never had her!  I want to quit!"

It hurts to write those words.  I should be basking in her newborn glow.  I should be thanking God for giving her to me.  I should be relishing these newborn weeks because they'll be over soon.  But my brain doesn't work that way right now, and quite frankly I can't think of anything I want more than to fast-forward six months to when this phase is over.

I've sought advice from two GPs (my usual GP seemed to be more stressful than helpful, labeling my daughter a "lazy sucker" and saying things like, "she'll probably never feed very well."  Great. Thanks). Queue anxiety point #3 - it will always be this hard.
A paedetrician told me she has a short tongue and nothing can be done but to keep trying and waking her every two hours to feed (yeah, how?!?).

And in all this, there was always 'advice' and 'warnings' to stop using nipple shields as soon as I was possibly able.  "They disrupt your supply."  "You'll get blocked ducts and mastitis because the baby can't drain the breast with nipple shields on."  "The baby won't get enough milk because they disrupt the let-down and flow." Etc.  So on top of the anxiety about feeding enough/often enough, her sleepiness and jaundice and never getting better, I felt immense pressure to give up the one thing that was making her feeds possible.

I've seen four lactation consultants, who've all given me difference advice.  But when the third one at the hospital said, "Oh, she's just content to starve" (the single worst thing she could have said given my anxiety triggers!), it started the gush of water out of my sanity dam.  I'd tried to feed my daughter in her presence so she could help us, but my daughter once again fell asleep and wouldn't feed.  I started to cry.  I started to cry harder.  I started telling her how much I didn't like my daughter; how if someone wanted to take her away, I'd happily hand her over.  Between handing me handfuls of tissues, the lactation consultant asked if I would mind if she called the Perinatal Mental Health unit to see if someone was available to come and talk to me.  I was embarrassed, but relieved that she did.  The next day, I talked to a mental health nurse over the phone, who arranged to come and visit me at home a few days later.  In the meantime, I had another massive meltdown at home about being worried my baby wasn't getting enough milk.

When the mental health nurse arrived the following day, I spilled my guts!  I told her everything I'd been struggling with, thinking and feeling - and not feeling (love, attachment, protective of my baby).  She told me I had Post Natal Depression, and that medication would be a good first step of several to help me get better.  I started to relax.  I had a plan.  I had help.  I was going to get better.  But then she, the GP and the pharmacist told me about the side effects of the drug I'd been given (the safest for breastfeeding mums), and that scared a good chunk of the crazy out of me!

"Your mood will get worse initially before it gets better, and this can sometimes include suicidal thoughts or tendencies, so if you feel that way, put the baby somewhere safe and either call 000 or go to a neighbour's house for help.  It can also disrupt your sleep, so take it first thing in the morning so you can get some sleep at night.  It can make you feel sick - like morning sickness - so try to have it with food to ease the sickness.  And it can also pass through the breastmilk to the baby and make them sleepy (like we hadn't struggled enough with that!).  But don't stop taking it - we have to wean you onto it, and wean you off; suddenly stopping it can do more damage."

F#*@!

So after battling my thoughts, I decided not to take it.

• I felt so low already, I didn't think I could cope with being made to feel any lower and still function on any level - even minimal.  
• Suicidal?!  Suicidal?!  Taking a drug that came with a warning to call an ambulance?!?!  Why are they even making it then!?!  
• I didn't want any drug in my new baby's system unless it was for her needs or benefit, but certainly not one that was going to make an existing problem even bigger!
• I was exhausted already and didn't think I could cope with more sleep disruption.  
• Not being able to stop taking it once I started, even if it made me crazier?
• And feeling nauseated on top of insomnia and suicidal?  Hell no.  All kinds of no!

That was just over a week ago.

• So now I'm seeing a psychologist, and I have my second appointment with her tomorrow, and she's going to give me tools to help challenge my anxious thoughts.
• I'm going on walking dates with a beautiful neighbour at least one night a week after our kids are asleep, so I can get some fresh air, exercise and a change of scenery (and gas-bagging helps too).
• I will be able to drive at the end of this week (albeit a few days earlier than the recommended 6 weeks), so I've planned to attend a breastfeeding mothers' group (oh Lord, I hope they don't judge me for using shields) to meet some new people and get out of the house for a hour or two, and meet up with my sister-in-law for coffee once a fortnight, and also just get out and feel alive and independent again.
• And I've also found ONE, international board certified lactation consultant to talk to for advice, to cut out the crap-load of mixed-messages I've been given to date.  And you know what she said?  "So what if you need shields?!  They're working.  I've had clients who've used them for two years!"  And if nothing else, I am embracing that one sentence from her whole two-hour visit.  I don't have to ditch the nipple shields.  It doesn't matter if I keep using them - they are my security blanket because I know feeds work with them; bub is getting lots of milk; she's gaining weight back.  My anxiety is lower when I use them.  When I try to feed without them, my anxiety is up from the start, and bub doesn't feed as well or for as long, if she attaches at all.  Decision made!

I have Post Natal Depression, and it's going to take time and effort to get better.  There isn't a quick fix, like "Just eat better" or my favourite, "Fake til to you make it!  Get dressed, put make-up on and smile, even if you don't feel like it, and you'll feel better".  Bwaa haa haa!

I am a nipple shield mumma and I will not give them up.  My baby has issues with feeding and needs help.  I don't know why.  It doesn't matter.  I will do whatever I need to do to make sure she's okay, and if that includes washing a piece of silicone after every feed for six months, Lord knows I will wash that piece of silicone after every feed for six months!

Feeding issues is just part of our journey and my daughter's baby story.  I will tell her all about it when she's older - and ask for an extra big bunch of flowers for the next Mother's Day.

I am getting better.  I am getting stronger.  I am beating this.

I believe in Santa

I believe in Santa.

Well, I did as a child, until I busted my grandmother being the tooth fairy when I was about 6 or 7 and the whole fantasy-land part of my childhood died in seconds.  No Easter Bunny.  No fairies.  No Santa.  It was sad because it was the end of a really special part of my childhood, where magic was not just possible, but REAL - where I'd stare up in the sky on Christmas Eve just willing myself to see Santa's sleigh; where I could barely get to sleep the nights I lost a tooth because a REAL toothfairy was going to visit my room that night to take my tooth away and leave me 20 cents (it was the 80s and I was cheap to please).  I think once I even made a little 'bathroom' out of my doll's house furniture for the toothfairy in case she needed to use the toilet, wash her face or have a drink of water on her rounds!  I was a sweetie.

 

My mum did a wonderful job of nurturing and growing this fantasy land part of my childhood.  She wrote a letter from the toothfairy for every tooth I lost (until I busted grandma), sprinkled in some glitter and came up with beautifully magical names, like Moonbeam and Twinkle Toes (well, they were beautiful and magical to me at the time!)  She diligently ate half the raw carrot we put out every Easter for the Easter bunny.  She drank the milk and biscuits left out for Santa (an easier task than raw carrot) and even let me collect lawn clippings to leave for the reindeer and sprinkled them down the hallway and out the front door to make it look like the reindeer had to eat it on the run.  I cringe at the mess she made, all to make my Christmas morning that year more... magical.  I think my oldest sister and brother even got in on the action one year and rolled their bikes back and forth on the front yard to make sleigh tracks in our dead, brown and crunchy North Queensland drought-affected lawn.

 

My childhood rocked in that regard.

 

So let me tell you why I will be working my butt off over the coming several years to make sure my darling daughter and her little brother/sister have that same magical wonder I enjoyed, thanks to my mum and despite the scoffing of my dad (and no doubt others).

 

That age of magical wonder and innocence is so freakin' short!  Poof - gone!  All too soon, my babies will be grown up and slowly understand the realities of life and being a human in this world.  They will know that bad things happen all too often, and to good people.  They will know that people can be mean.  They will learn about poverty and homelessness.  They will know they will be expected to work hard at school, only to leave school and work hard in some area to make a living and pay a never-ending slew of bills.  They will have their heart broken.  They will make friends and lose friends.  And yes, they will fall wonderfully in love.  They will see real miracles happen, and how kind and wonderful people can be.  As well as the ugly in the world, they will see the beautiful, too, I know.  BUT, that magical wonder - the magic and fantasy and innocence and excitement and wonder of childhood - only lasts a few precious years.  I want my children to have that.

 

Hearing a five-year-old tell my two-year-old, "Santa's not real!  It's just mum and dad!" makes me sad.  So while you may teach your child/ren that Santa isn't real and Christmas is just about presents and food and being with family (and the fact that the whole reason for Christmas is to celebrate the birth of our Saviour Jesus Christ - that's a whole other blog), please also tell them to keep their mouths shut when they're playing with other children.  You might not want to "lie to them and deceive them", but I bloody well am and will continue to, to foster my childrens' wonder and imagination and excitement and magical view of life and the world for as long as I can.

 

The world needs more magic and wonder.  Not less.

Mumsy's the word

Mumsy. adjective. Giving an impression of dull domesticity; dowdy or unfashionable. 

I've always been a bit of a dork.  I've never had much time for make-up and usually only wear it when required - whether it's work or blemishes or late-night dark circles.  I have never been able to style my hair past the ponytail or tussled-dry looks so I steer clear of hairstyles that require appliances, and the greys are starting to take over.  We don't have much money (especially now that we're expecting our second baby and will be dropping to one income soon) so I don't buy clothes for myself.  New injections to my wardrobe come via two means - hand-me-downs from my beautiful sisters, and things my mum buys me out of pity (bless her!), which are usually smaller versions of the clothes she buys herself. These aren't usually clothes I would buy myself but I really do appreciate them.  And while I could buy myself quality pieces as the budget allows, I find myself overwhelmed and lost, so by default go back to the same dorky options from the same cheap shops.

Last year I went to a friend's hen's party and there was nothing, a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y nothing, in my wardrobe that was suitable to wear out to a bar or nightclub.  Not even a top to pair with basic jeans!  Not even with accessorising!  And earlier this year, my husband and I were able to get away for the night to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary at a very swanky hotel and I had nothing suitable to wear to waltz through the doors of said swanky hotel and sit stylishly in their marble and polished timber foyer.  I put on the dress I chose, looked in the mirror and asked my husband, "Does this look too mumsy?"  He shrugged, meaning "Yes, I agree with you that it is but I can't really say anything about it."  He's a smart man.  I looked like a haggered mum from the suburbs wearing a dress she got from a $2 clothes swap.  Because I was.

Mumsy. adjective. Giving an impression of dull domesticity; dowdy or unfashionable. 

While I've always been a bit of a dork, I seem to have gotten worse in the last six or seven years, since I've been with my wonderful husband.  Now, my current 'mumsy' appearance has nothing to do with him (he doesn't have anything to do with what's in my wardrobe!), but I think the reason behind the change in my appearance just happened to coincide with the time he entered my life. 

Let me explain.

I've written previously about how before I was a Christian, I slept around because a) I didn't know any better and b) I just wanted someone to love me so badly and thought that's how I'd find it. After all, sex = love, surely!  (http://beingjenkerr.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/dear-20-year-old-me.html) So after almost 10 years worth of letting myself be treated like a play thing and of dressing to attract the opposite sex (albeit in a relatively modest fashion compared to what you see these days), I found God.  Then I found real love with my now husband.  And then I unconsciously started to go out the other side - waaaaay out the other side.  I chose and accepted clothes of a style too old for me, that were ill-fitting, ultra conservative, boring.  And floral.  Lots of floral.

I realised this morning that all of this was a reaction to - in retaliation of - those 10 years of dressing for attention.  I was dressing to hide. To repel attention.  To blend into the background (of a couch from the 1960s?)  Almost like women who've been abused who put on weight as a way of protecting themselves and making themselves feel invisible.  I started dressing in a way that wouldn't draw any male attention at all.

But now I catch sight of myself and wonder where the hec I've gone! "Where's the Jen I feel on the inside, and why doesn't she show on the outside?"  Now more time has passed and I'm stronger and in a better and genuinely loving place, I want to find the new me.  We still don't have the money for shopping sprees and wardrobe make-overs, but I could at least clean out my cupboard of the worst offenders.  I could start looking through magazines at the dentist or hairdresser (actually go to an actual hairdresser) and get ideas of what style could suit me.  I could start paying attention to women around me who are my age to get ideas.  I could go into shops and try lots of things on to find out what does suit me.  And I could start loving myself more and realising that I am worth a $100 dress or pair of shoes every now and then - hec, anything from a shop that doesn't have shopping trolley bays at the entrance!

I am beautiful.  I am worthy.  I am forgiven.  I am safe.  I am loved.  It's okay.

Okay, GROUP HUG!

Mr Judgey McJudge

The great thing about living in Australia is that our Federal Government can pay the primary caregiver of a new baby (born or adopted) up to 18 weeks Paid Parental Leave (PPL) at the national minimum wage rate to allow them to be home with and spend time with their new little one.  What a blessing.

The problem though, is navigating the MINEFIELD of paperwork and questions and forms and links, tucks and half-pikes with a double twist required to submit your application!  So I had a little vent on Facebook (as you do) about equally needing and loathing applying for PPL.  Paperwork and I hate each other, but I'm the only one who ends up in tears!  It's a dysfunctional relationship.

So how very dare one childless Facebook 'friend' judge me for applying for the government's PPL!  A man who has no idea what it's like to have a mortgage and raise a family and make ends meet!  A man who doesn't think twice about money!  How very dare he look down his nose at me for applying for government assistance so I can spend more time with my new baby!

I sure do envy those women who either have a big fat savings account and don't need PPL, or who have a partner who earns enough money that they don't need it. We, however, need it! We need it so badly that if the government didn't offer such a great deal, I would have to go back to work very shortly after baby's birth just to afford our modest mortgage, rates and insurance bills. And I don't want that!

I want to be home with my new baby for as long as I possibly can so I can bond with them, love on them, get to know them, encourage them, and spend time with them while I have the chance - for them and for me. I want that block of time to be as big as financially possible. And as stressful and anxiety-causing as this financial position may be, I wouldn't change having our baby for the world. The Lord knows we wanted them!

Yes, it's my choice to have a baby. Yes it's my choice to have a mortgage now instead of rent because I grew sick of the uncertainty, instability and hoop-jumping of renting. And yes it's my choice to take advantage of our Federal Government's Paid Parental Leave scheme to help me stay with our new baby for 18 weeks longer than I would normally have been able to, because I want to be a good mum, which to me equals time.  Before I turn around twice bub will be cared for by someone else three days a week so I can go back to work to keep paying off our worst-house-in-the-best-street, in-need-of-renovation house, full-of-love, warm and cosy little house that I hope to grow old in.  And I'm blessed that I can choose to go back only part-time, even though it means our life in simple and not extravegant.

The mean and nasty side of me hopes Mr Judgey McJudge, who took a dig at anyone who needs any government assistance, one day finds himself standing in line at Centrelink in need of help, advice or guidance like me, and he can see with his own eyes that he's no different to anyone else there. But the kinder part of me... shoot, she hasn't shown up yet!  But I'm sure it's something along the lines of I hope this man is blessed enough that he can continue living life to the level he's become accustomed, and that he never knows what it is to be in lack.  I hope that when he's one one of his international holidays and sees people in need and expresses compassion for them, he realises tha tthey're just like some people in his own country who are also in need, but are blessed with a governmental system who can help them.

Don't ever judge another's journey unless you've been there too.  Hec, even then!  Don't ever judge someone if you're not willing to talk to them and find out their story.  And certainly, don't you dare look down on anyone, unless you're helping them up!  WORD!

(Note: Yes, I do know there are people who rorte the system and that's not fair and I disagree with that too.  But for the purposes of this post, I am referring to people who are genuine.)

Hey, baby!

My goodness it has been a long time between drinks, and there is much to catch you up on.

 

My last post was about going for our last and final round of IUI because I couldn't keep putting myself and my marriage through the financial and emotional stress of it all.  But by the grace of God, that last attempt worked and I'm now 31 weeks pregnant with a beautiful baby we're calling 'Titch' for now because we've chosen not to find out the sex - how I do love surprises!  It was a conception unlike our first - very unfun and unromantic - but at least my husband was in the room with me!

But as soon as those two pink lines appeared, I started freaking out.  About everything!  "Am I really ready to do this?" "What was I thinking!!?!" "I've waited so long for this, I just know something is going to go wrong"!  I didn't write an update before now because I was worried (read: convinced) something was going to go wrong; and then I just got busy with life and ignored my online journal journey. 

And honestly, it's only been recently that I've started to chill out a bit (a bit) because I can feel baby moving around, and if they needed to be born now, there's a really good chance that they'd be okay (though I am glad I live in a big city, with my hospital only 20 minutes from home... and I reckon an ambulance could do it in under 15).  But I know I won't truly relax until I'm holding Titch in my arms, happy, healthy and strong.  That is my prayer.  My due date is in early January, so we'll wait and see when Titch wants to arrive!

It's been a bit of a rough ride, but nothing compared to some (hello long-distance friend! You know who you are) - faint and light-headed spells, hip pain, back pain, insomnia, muscle cramps, anaemia, low blood pressure... you know, the usual.  But carrying around an extra 12kg will do that to a person.  

I make noises when I sit down and stand up now.  I have to sit on the bathroom floor to brush my teeth because my legs get too tired to hold me up.  I can't stand too close to the kitchen bench to cook comfortably, and need to sit back from the dining table to make room for my tummy.  My feet swell and ache on my busy home days when I do my washing and cleaning jobs.  I've had to take my wedding rings off because my fingers swell so much in the heat I fear losing my ring finger due to lack of circulation!  But I'm embracing all of it (so far) because I'm pretty sure this will be our last baby.  There is no way I am going through that fertility doctor process again (to a sigh of relief from my husband and our bank account), but I think we're going to save a lot of money on birth control from now on!  Ha!

So stand by as this blog changes direction again - from struggling with wanting to study but not knowing what (definitely settled on social work) or having the money (still waiting for that lotto win!); to whether or not I'd lose my job through 'future proofing' the company (didn't happen and thankfully no new rumblings among the water-cooler whisperers); to struggling with infertility; now pregnant; and hopefully out the other side to being a mum of two on maternity leave, navigating the world of cloth nappies and how not to lose my mind, while Miss 3 starts kindy and I try to take my baby back to work with me!  Yep, wish me luck on that one!

 

I hope you still want to join me on the ride. Peace out.

I want myself back!

I’m really struggling at the moment.  I feel like crying most of the time, which is not like me.  I’m not always rainbows and butterflies, but I am usually more upbeat and get-it-done than melancholy and down-in-the-dumps.  It could be the fertility drugs I’m on, which have an impressive line-up of side effects, but it’s also circumstantial.  More baby announcements, hearing a pregnant work colleague talk to another, whose wife is expecting their second baby, about feeling the baby move and how exciting it all is.  At my desk.  I had to get up and leave with the plan of having a good cry-it-out in the ladies, but given the acoustics in the bathroom I opted for a quiet office to take some deep breaths and pray.  They were gone when I got back – praise Jesus!

Usually going for a run helps me when I’m feeling down or upset or angry, but I’ve been advised not to while we’re trying to get pregnant – and after all the effort everyone’s going to to try and get me up the duff, I dare not.  After we’re done I can go back to it with wild abandon.  But I could really use a good 5km right now.

Another fact getting me down is my past.  Every so often the choices I made and the things I’ve done rear their ugly heads in my ‘new’ life.  I usually push it out, but given my current mental state, those thoughts have been lingering and are getting harder to shut out.  Sometimes I let myself dwell there – to feel it – but then I feel worse than before.  At the Good Friday church service today I was reminded that Jesus died on the cross for my sins, and my slate has been wiped clean – white as snow – but instead of feeling uplifted, I feel unworthy.  I just feel so sad.

Without running, and with my current shitty mental state – sadness, anger, shame, loneliness, jealously – I’ve noticed I am eating more than I should too, and eating things I usually do well avoiding.  I could write the book on comfort eating!  I feel like I’m eating hand over fist to try and make myself feel better, when really it’s only going to make me feel so much worse because my clothes won’t fit anymore, I won’t like my reflection and my self-esteem will take a nosedive, and getting back into running will be a longer and more painful (and jiggly) process.  To boot, one of the side effects of the drug I’m on is weight gain.  Freaking. Awesome.

I just can’t seem to shake this funk.  I almost can’t wait to stop going through this fertility treatment process so I can get off those drugs and get myself back.  But I want to see out our three attempts.  I want to give this everything I’ve got.  I told our specialist on Tuesday that when we've done our three attempts, we're going to call it a day, and he said he really respected that choice.  He is a beautiful man.  So when/if it doesn’t work, I will still hate hearing pregnant women talk about their pregnancies, seeing or hearing birth and pregnancy announcements, ultrasound photos and general baby business.  Why WHY can’t it be me?  I will still cry – I’m a crier from way back – but at least the cocktail will be out of my system, and I can run again to shift my mood.  At this rate, I’ll be set for my first marathon later this year!

Roll the dice!

So if you’ve never read a post of mine before, let me catch you up.  I’m Jen, I’m a wife and mum of one beautiful three-year-old girl, I’m a runner, I work part time, I have a cat, pretty cool friends and family, my workplace has been a bit unstable in the past but the dust seems to have settled for now – I’m even fishing for a pay rise (Brave?  Stupid?).  And we can’t have any more children.  Without a doctor getting involved anyway.

After trying for a year, my husband and I sought help.  Nine months later (ironically enough) we tried our first “assisted cycle”.  It didn’t work.  But we’ll try again twice more before “hanging up the ovaries” as it were.  Because I’m 35.  Because it’s so bloody expensive and we don’t have much money.  But mostly because it’s a crazy hormone-fulled, pill-popping, blood-test-jabbing, doctor-jumping, legs-in-stirrups rollercoaster ride that we can’t sustain.  And because, while I would love a whole minivan full of kids, I love my husband more than a dream of what should have been.

When I first asked for a referral from my GP a year ago, he said “Buckle up!  This isn’t for the faint hearted”. And Lordy was the man right!  The side effects of the fertility drugs are crazy!  One woman described it as “PMS on crack” and I think that’s pretty accurate!  Then add in back-to-back doctor’s appointments starting as early at 6.30am, daily blood tests for four days in a row, early-morning dashes into the city and the anxiety and anxiousness you try your best not to feel during the two-week wait to find out if it’s worked or not.  ANYONE would be a basket case.  And I don’t want to live like that.  I don’t want my husband to live like that.  I love my husband and choose to protect our marriage rather than force it through this process of trying for another baby that God might not have for us.

I have been thinking a lot lately about fostering children in need.  I believe God keeps showing us things that He wants us to pay attention to, and for me that’s been news articles about foster children, the system, the global need.  And I can’t ignore that!  Perhaps God’s answer to us having more children is no, because He wants us to help children who are already here who need love, security and opportunity. Even if it’s for a  weekend, a week, a few months or years.  But I know it’s not the season yet. Our daughter is still so young and I’d like her to be older before we start this process because it will involve her greatly.  I just get so impatient sometimes!

Getting back to running has been a big help in shifting my focus and de-stressing about all of this (focusing on moving your legs, breathing and not falling over or passing out will do that to a girl!), but during the next two rolls of the dice, I have to stop to give everything a good shot.  I miss it, but I’m not going to waste $800-a-shot and all the jabs and pokes for a few early-morning runs!  My sneakers and the marathons of the world will wait for me.  I’ll be back.