One in a Million

Who Deserves A Baby?

Last night I dreamed that I was on a reality show called Who Deserves A Baby? Undoubtedly this dream was spurred on by the Starbucks "The Way I See It #208" Cup, which reads:

I wish couples who desperately take every means to conceive a child would realize that adoption is a wonderful alternative. A child who becomes your child through adoption completes a family. Just as when you commit to your spouse or partner there are no biological ties, yet a family was formed. This child enters a family the same way! It is not blood and flesh that form a family, but the heart.

I can't agree more with the majority of that quote. It's the first sentence, so dripping with judgment, that really bakes my potato (as my folksy Southern husband would say). There are many excellent critiques of this cup all over the blogosphere, so all I'll add is, Screw You, Starbucks.

Anyway, I heard about #208 yesterday and it made me pretty sad, as one of those selfish and desperate infertile women who selfishly and desperately pursued assisted reproductive technology instead of skipping down the golden path to adoption, which is paved with marshmallows, by the way. I know it's hard to believe, but for us ART was significantly cheaper and less involved than pursuing adoption right now. Not that I'm defensive. Not that I need to explain myself to strangers on the Internets or coffee-cup pundits.

But! Back to my dream! So there was this brand-new reality show called Who Deserves A Baby? and I was one of several sad, driven women who were forced to compete to prove their maternal worthiness. This was a very complicated dream. For example, in one task I had to remodel and manage a store that sold maternity clothing, and I had the brilliant idea of putting toilets in the dressing room--probably because these days, I spend more time in the bathroom than out of it. Now that I am awake, I'm rather grossed out by toilet/dressing rooms--but again, I digress.

I'm sure you can see where this is going. In one of the rounds, the women were judged in a mocking, scathing way. I lost points for wearing the same outfit three times in one week (true) and for failing to style my hair (also true). I also lost points for being overemotional and gaining weight (again, true and true). The whole element of judgment reduced me to a whimpering puddle of tears. I was so upset I even called a meeting with Amanda Peet, who (in my dream) reprised her role as Jordan from the abominable Studio 60. Even though I tried, tried with all my heart, I couldn't make anyone understand how painful infertility is--and my best efforts were mocked in the final cut of the show.

So where does this leave me? Well, I'm laughing at my crazy dream, and dreading the day that a variation on this "show" becomes an actual part of network programming. But more than that, I'm feeling vulnerable and defensive, and realizing just how deeply infertility has marked my soul. The desire for a child is such a primal one; how can we ever discount its power?

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Well, enough of my dreamscapes. I am six weeks and one day pregnant. With twins! Here they are:

I know it's not much to see yet--but the sacs are the perfect size, and look just right. We're hoping for a heartbeat TWO heartbeats (!) at my next prenatal visit in 9 days. D and I are so excited, even though it's a long, long road ahead of us. But I'll post more about that later.

Took a belly picture yesterday, since I'm feeling all puffed out. No doubt my giant, cyst-studded ovaries are helping with the bulk. Unfortunately I had to crop out my head because I look like death warmed over, what with the dark circles under my eyes and utter exhaustion seeping from every pore. Also I was having a bad hair day. And, oh yeah, Internet privacy and all. But here I am!

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I will try to be better about posting. I've been thinking a lot about where to go with this blog. When I started it, I never dreamed I'd get pregnant so quickly, and most of the time I'm so nervous and exhausted and exhilarated and nauseous that the posts I'd write would bore you to tears. And I'm just feeling so earnest these days. There's not much funny about earnest, you know? I mean, the other thing I could post about is what I eat every day, which is of vast interest to me but probably not the rest of the world. So please bear with me while I figure this out. Mwa!

Me X 2

Last night, for possibly the first time ever, I clearly and vividly dreamed of my children.

Many women I know have had dreams of their future children. Until last night, I have not. As the long, slow slog of infertility progressed, this became worrisome for me in the way that signs and portents take on unexpected meaning in times of trouble. If I did not dream of them, did that mean they weren't meant to be? Did it mean I was not meant to be a mother?

Last night's dream changed all that. It gave me hope, but it also made me a little sad. In the dream, there were two of me, which is exactly what the world needs, right? Of course. There was Now-Me, 28 and not a mother, and there was Future-Me, about 35-36. Now-Me was helping Future-Me, who was clearly exhausted. Compared to Future Me, Now-Me was an absolute ray of sunshine--chipper and eager to embrace whatever happened next. (Please, no laughing.) I'm sorry to report that by the looks of Future-Me, the recent ass-spreading I've noticed is going to worsen exponentially. Ah well, c'est la vie.

It's novel that there were two Mes, but more interesting that there were two children. Now-Me was helping Future-Me get them into the car. Now-Me was placing a chatty and exuberant four-year-old girl into a car seat. She was adorable, healthy, smart, engaging, beautiful, and more--everything you could dream of in a child. Now-Me could have listened to her talking for hours. Future-Me was tucking a sleepy and perfect newborn boy into another car seat. Now-Me and Future-Me didn't interact at all, except that Now-Me did, I'm afraid, take note of the aforementioned ass-spreading.

So why did this dream make me sad? Well, the Destiny of the Spreading Ass was revealed. And Future-Me was so tired she didn't seem blissfully happy--even though she had attained the Sacred State of Motherhood for which I've been fighting for so long. (Mothers Everywhere, on cue: bwahahahahahahaha!) No, the reason the dream made me unhappy was because I still felt like motherhood was very far away for me. If Future-Me was 36 and had a four-year-old, that means her first baby came at 32. Which is still four years away for me.

But that's a hell of a lot better than nothing. Perhaps the dream is meant to give me strength through the days to come, if the journey takes longer still. I am in this for the long haul, for better or for worse. Right now, I can't imagine a worthier cause than fighting for my children. Some day I will tell them of the promise I made them, the promise I whisper to the stars and to God and the promise that is repeated with every beat of my heart: I fought for you before you were born, before you were even brought into being. I wanted you so much that nothing, nothing in the world could stand between us.