My oldest entries, brought here in large monthly chunks. Read below the cut.

June 26, 2002
We started a new support group because the old one *did* shut down. I feel very caught in the middle but when the owner asked us to leave, I felt like the best thing to do would be to honor her request so I set up a new list. I’m the owner in name only since I don’t plan to do anything that actually looks like list ownership. So far people haven’t wanted to process what happened because we’re too busy celebrating a pregnancy! Hooray! The woman who had IVF is indeed pregnant!
{write me}

June 24, 2002
Last night I dreamt that I took a pregnancy test and it turned positive immediately. It was like no pregnancy test currently on the market because it actually gave you the hCG number and it worked instantly. Mine said that I had five viable embryos. I think I had this dream because a virtual friend of mine just went through IVF and will find out Friday how pregnant she is. At least, I’m hoping that’s what she finds out Friday.

I’m waiting to either get my period or a postive test. I’m not sure when I ovulated so I’m not sure when my period is due. I’m on progesterone right now, too, which delays it. I’m a nervous wreck. I don’t know if I’m up to doing clomid again but I don’t know if I can bear not to give it another chance.

Brett painted our bedroom last night so we all slept on the couch in the basement. Needless to say, I’m very very tired.

The flamewar continues and it looks like my favorite support list will be disbanding. I’m pretty miserable about it. Since you’re reading this, you probably know how real an online community can be. I’m worried for my friend who had the IVF, too. This is her support group and it’s falling apart right when she needs it most.
{write me}

June 23, 2002
I just got back from running and I feel like I’m going to keel over. Even though we went a little before 9am, it was already so humid that it was hard to get around the track 6 times. Brett and Noah were there to cheer me on. They sat on the sidelines and ate chocolate donuts. Thank goodness Madonna was there, too, in all her auditory glory moving me around the track.
{write me}

June 21, 2002
Oh dear. My favorite online support group is succumbing to a flame war. You know, I think everyone has a right to their opinion but if they express it strongly, they have to understand that people aren’t just going to roll over and say, “Ouch that hurt but that’s fine.” People would be more effective in stating their case if they weren’t so dogmatic. I know the old argument is, “If I feel strongly, then I must speak strongly!” But as someone who spent the first 16 years of her life ranting and railing at people who didn’t agree with her, I can say I’ve changed more minds since I learned to kill ‘em with kindness. When I see people using strong (even ugly) language, I wonder if they feel more strongly about being loud than they do about really effecting change.
I love this group. It’s saving my infertile life these days.
Speaking of my infertile life, I got my thyroid screen back. Normal. Got my progesterone test back, too, and it was 18. Anything over 5 means you ovulated (on one of my misses — when I obviously ovulated — my progesterone was like 2.7), anything over 10 is enough to sustain a pregnancy, and anything over 15 is good for a medicated (read: clomid) cycle. I think I took the test 5 DPO instead of 7 DPO (that’s days post-ovulation) so that number might even be low. Somebody come slap me sideways because I’m actually feeling slightly hopeful this cycle. My therapist will be thrilled. That is until she has to deal with the emotional fall-out if I get my period (which is due right before our next appointment.)
{write me}

June 20, 2002
Oh my mom and I had a blast at Mama Mia. It was such a fun show and they had a great finale that got everyone in the theater dancing and singing. I’m so glad that kind, considerate Brett got me the tickets!

I sent a story idea in to a magazine that shall remain nameless unless they decide to take it (I’ve been in them before but that was an assigned piece). The editor wants to call me and discuss it further. I cheerfully emailed her my phone number and then contemplated hiding under the bed for the rest of the day.
Anytime I get a bite on a piece, I panic and decide I have no business writing it. The other thing I find difficult about this particular idea is that I can’t say for sure how it’ll play out because it will rely heavily on interviews. Interviews are wild cards. First you have to find people willing to talk and then you have to hope they actually have something interesting to say and then you have to pray that it will all gel into an article. Arghhh. And it’s so risky doing all that work on spec. Remember how the editors at Salon were so enthusiastic about a story idea I sent them and after I wrote it, they decided not to take it after all because it was no longer “timely”. (It made reference to Andrea Yates and I turned it in like five days after they accepted it. I worked my tushie off on that.)

{write me}

June 19, 2002
Poor Brett. He worked eleven hours yesterday and then he and I were up until 1:30am arguing. It wasn’t a major argument, just me telling him that I needed more than usual from him because this clomid is kicking my emotional ass. I feel like I’m fourteen again when all the world sucked and I hated everybody. I don’t know if I can do this another month. If I thought the clomid might work, it would be a lot easier to deal with the side effects but I’m not that hopeful anymore.

I feel like I’m in a holding pattern when it comes to thinking about having a baby. It’s all theory; I no longer have faith that I’ll get one. My therapist said that she’s concerned that I’m not more hopeful but I told her that four miscarriages in 2.5 years will do that to a person.

Someone on my infertility support list said that I might want to consider going on Zoloft while I’m on clomid and many people echoed encouragement but I wouldn’t feel good about that. I’m screwing with my brain chemistry here and I hesitate to take *more* drugs to screw with it further. Right now I’m feeling like I’ll talk to my RE next month and try to find out exactly what my damn diagnosis is (can we get some agreement here people?) and have him explain to me why he thinks this course of treatment would work. Ironically, my doctors all have absolute faith that I’ll have a healthy baby eventually. Wish they could throw a little of that optimism my way.
Last night Brett asked me if I could make myself stop caring so much. He said it’s so hard to watch me cry every month. I told him if I could have made myself stop caring, I would have done it a long time ago. I don’t want to want a baby this badly. I would love to be happy with an only child. I know this is difficult for people to understand so all I can tell you is that baby hunger is like physical hunger; you can’t talk yourself out of it.

Although my clomid-induced gloom is prevalent in my head right now, I do know how lucky I am. As unhappy as I am about my infertility, I have so many other things that give me great joy. Noah is wonderful, I’m madly in love with my incredibly kind and sympathetic husband, I’m going to go see Mama Mia with my own mama tonight, the insecure-writers already seem like a great bunch of people and have given me new inspiration, and I have several friends who help me through dark days like these.

I’m hanging in there.
{write me}

June 18, 2002
Tales of my newly modest 5-year old:

  • The neighbors have a new pool. Noah was at their house changing into his trunks, very excited about going for a swim. Before he left the bathroom, he wanted his t-shirt back on.
    “But, honey,” I protested. “You never swim with a shirt on at Grandma’s.”
    (My mother has a condo.)
    “That’s different,” he insisted, pulling his shirt over his head. “This is someone’s backyard!”
  • Noah decided to wear a favorite t-shirt that has a very stretched our neck. The neck sometimes bothers him so before we left the house, I told him he might want to go look in the mirror and make sure he felt good about his shirt.
    He examined himself in the mirror for awhile then came out, saying confidently, “It’s ok, mommy, it doesn’t show my nipples.”
  • Last night, Noah refused to allow Daddy to enter the room.
    “Did you see that?” he said to me. “Daddy wasn’t wearing a shirt! Do you like that?”
    “I don’t mind it,” I said.
    “Well, I do!” he shook his head. “I told him to go put a shirt on. I find that very annoying!”
    What makes this all the funnier (and cuter) is that he’ll thinking nothing of streaking out of his bedroom completely nude and shaking his tushie at anybody who’s around. It’s all about context, I guess!
    We’re off to the zoo today. It’s going to be the last cool day for awhile so we’ve got to take advantage of it.
    {write me}

    • June 17, 2002
    I’m so tired. I wish I had a feather bed to sink into. Since I don’t have that, I wish I had a mocha. Since I can’t have that, I guess I’ll sit here and pout.

    I decided to start an insecure writer’s list because I wanted to hang out with Sarah and Holly. If you would like to be part of this support group, you must first see if you fit the following criteria:

  • You must be plagued by feelings of self-doubt although you secretly think you’re going to set the world on fire with your pen/keyboard;
  • You may or may not be published but you’re not as published as you deserve to be because you’re daunted by sending query letters;
  • You may or may not be writing much but you *want* to be writing more;
  • You must be patient with the rest of us who are all at different stages in our writing careers/journeys and whose lives sometimes rear up and knock us off our keyboards.
  • Talent helps.
    New subscribers need to get approved by me but that just means I’ll write and ask you to send an intro. We want to keep it small so that it never gets overwhelming.



    Click to subscribe to insecure-writers

    Thanks to a diligent reader, I was alerted to the fact that the arm swapping story on the body mod site was an April Fool’s joke. We were all figuring it was a fake (but still fun to send around) because the arm looked too good. My mom figured the weight of it wouldn’t work and I figured it’d be more wasted. Anyway, Anna (diligent reader) was trying to find a site explaining the joke but couldn’t find it. I was able to find this but it’s part of google’s cache and I don’t know how long it’ll be available.
    {write me}

    • June 15, 2002
    The Talmud tells a story of Rabbi Hillel, who lived around the time of Jesus. A pagan came to him saying that he would convert to Judaism if Hillel could teach him the whole of the Torah in the time he could stand on one foot. Hillel replied, “What is hateful to yourself, do not do to your fellow man. That is the whole Torah; the rest is just commentary. Go and study it.” — from JewFaq.org

    The Source continues to upset me with its accurate portrayal of Jewish persecution through the ages. I had no idea that Martin Luther was a horrible anti-semite. How depressing. Maybe you didn’t know either so in the spirit of education, I offer you this; a fine article on anti-semitism in the Christian church written by a Christian. It’s very good and I encourage you all to read it. Don’t worry, there’s no Christian bashing in it. I should send it to Brett’s born again cousin who dismissed my thoughts on the matter saying, “Well, Christians have been persecuted, too.” Ummm, that’s a little like saying sure African-Americans were slaves but hey, white people occasionally have had it tough. Whatever.

    When I was running last night, I was thinking about my ancestors and what they’ve gone through and how lucky I am to be living in a country that guarantees freedom of religion. Am I grateful enough? I started thinking (again) about the covenant of bris milah and feeling incredibly guilty that I won’t have a bris for my own sons. Sometimes when I’m really feeling hopeless I start wondering if maybe the reason that I haven’t been able to have another child is that I’m not being a good enough Jew, namely that I won’t commit to circ’ing my sons. Think about it: my ancestors died for the right to bring their children into the covenant! There are certainly people within the anti-circ movement (I’d say the grassroots part of the movement mostly) who are anti-semites even if they don’t call themselves that. I’ve read too many posts on parenting boards that lambaste Judaism in its entierty to believe otherwise. It sickens me and I wish that I could send them all copies of The Source so they’d get a clue. Anyway, I hate to think that I’m a party to that.

    As I was running, I started imagining what I would do if God Him/Herself appeared in a burning bush next to the jogging path and said, “If you promise to bring your son into the covenant, I’ll make sure you’ll get knocked up this month.” I think I would have to turn Him/Her down. I’d say, “God, thanks so much for the offer but I have to say no. Because You gave us so many other lovely paths to You and I want my sons to choose their own.” But how lucky am I to be able to say that so casually? To just toss that off. No thanks, no circ’ing here, please. Do I appreciate that freedom enough? Jeez, how lucky am I? No Spanish Inquistion, no Crusades (and how am I going to read Robin Hood to Noah now? Suddenly King Richard the Lionheart doesn’t look like such a good guy), no Auschwitz.

    There I was running around, listening to Holly Cole on my headphones, and contemplating my Jewish history. I want to be a good Jew, I want to honor my ancestors and do my part to ensure the future of Judaism. Guilt guilt guilt. I looked up at this beautiful sunset as I turned a corner, Holly crooning in my ear and it came to me. (Some might say God whispered in my ear.) Circ’ing my son would be the easy way out. I mean, it’s one decision and over in an instant and it’s done to someone else. How would that bring me closer to God? There are so many other mitzvot I could be following; ones that don’t infringe on the rights of my interfaith children. I need to figure out where I fit as a Jew — born of interfaith parents, in my own interfaith marriage, raising an interfaith son. Lest I forget, this is *my* journey and God must think I’m up to it or I wouldn’t be on it.
    {write me}

    June 14, 2002
    Oh gosh, my son is so darling. We recently started giving him $1 a week for his allowance. Small change, I know, but a buck goes pretty far at the garage sales and thrift stores we frequent. Anyway, I started giving it to him because I was tired of negotiating with him on every trip to the store. I’ve always let him pick stuff out within reason at stores because if I’m thrifting for junk for myself (and clothes for my family) then why can’t he spend $.25 on a toy? Lately it’s become clear that his idea about what he wanted to get was starting to become vastly different from my idea of what he *should* get let alone what our budget would allow. After discussing it with him, we decided that he would start to get an allowance and that he could save up for specific things if he wanted or blow it on a happy meal some afternoon when he’s hankering for fries and I refuse to buy him any.
    His money is *his* and that means he can buy stuff (like the happy meal) of which I don’t approve. I told Brett that as hard as it may be, we have to keep our grubby little “thou shalt not” paws off his budget.
    He had three dollars (and pocket change) as of this morning. He was planning on saving for Superman underoos but we were going to the resale shop to find him a swimsuit so he decided to take a dollar with him. First we went shopping for Brett’s father’s day present then we went to the resale shop. I scored for Noah’s wardrobe with two pairs of pants, a short-sleeve shirt, a heavy sweatshirt, and a nice bathing suit all for $2.66. He meandered through the toys trying to find THE ONE. There wasn’t anything that quite caught his eye, at least not in his price range. I reminded him that he could always save his money for next time but you know how it is. That dollar was burning a hole in his pocket. Finally he settled on a small plastic cheetah ($.80 + tax) and woefully brought it to the casher. When we got in the car, he said mournfully, “Next time I have three dollars, you know what I’m going to do? Save up for four dollars.”
    {write me}

    June 13, 2002
    My mom gave me her favorite book to read, The Source by James Michener. It’s very upsetting. It’s about the history of the Jewish people and right now I’m reading about the Spanish Inquisition. What a cheerful way to spend a gloomy, humid day in Ohio. I called my mom and hollered at her for loaning it to me because I can’t put it down and between this book and that damn body modification site, I’ve got some images in my head that really don’t need to be there.

    Noah has been so darling lately. Really thoughtful and funny. He’s looking like such a big kid now, with bruises on his shins and freckles across his nose. We went over to his friend’s house yesterday, like we do nearly every Wednesday, and they play together like puppies.
    Every day Brett leaves Noah a note on this great big chalkboard we got at a garage sale. When Noah wakes up, the first thing he does is run for the board to see what Daddy has to say. Usually the notes are about what thing Daddy is going to be that day since Noah likes us all to be something other than what we are. Usually he assigns the roles so after he gets the note, he’ll dictate one to me and I write it down on his magnadoodle. He’ll correct Brett, saying, “I didn’t like it when you said you were going to be a stapler. I want you to be a rabbit. I am a fox today and Mommy is going to be a duck.” Today Daddy said he was going to be a piece of paper which started Noah off on his day with a fit of giggles.
    I’m in love with my family.
    {write me}

    June 12, 2002

    **WARNING: THE LINKS IN THE FOLLOWING ENTRY MAY BE VERY DISTURBING TO SOME PEOPLE. CLICK AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION AND MAKE SURE THE KIDDIES AREN’T PEEKING OVER YOUR SHOULDER**

    I found this on another blog. In case you don’t want to quit, it’s a piece about twin brothers one of whom had his arm amputated so that the other brother could “wear” it permanantly on his own body. The story is hosted on an e-zine on body modifcation.
    I don’t really have an opinion on body modification other than it’s not for me, thank you. I have my ears pierced and that’s it. No tattoos, no unusual piercings, no brands. It definitely bothers me when people do it purely in the name of fashion but then high heels bother me. I couldn’t say at what point an inappropriate line is crossed because I don’t really understand people’s motivations to go to the extreme. But if you’re a grown-up and you’ve done your research, well, just don’t show me your scars, ok? And please, please, please don’t let Noah ever get into it.

    When I was hanging around the CPR (cool punk rock) scene in the late 80s here in Columbus, OH there was only a wee bit of body modification stuff going on; nothing very major. There was one group of people doing ritual piercings and some “magick” sex stuff based on the teachings of The Temple of Psychic Youth. Some of my friends were involved to varying degrees but I was never interested in it so I know very little about what actually went on in Lyceum 23.
    While I’ve been known to perk up my ears at the occasional Throbbing Gristle song, I never liked Genesis P-Orridge (the founder of TOPY) and his ilk. Call me bourgeoisie (and they did and I am) but performance art involving bodily fluids always struck me as infantile.
    Speaking of repulsive “art”, my ex-boyfriend — the one I had off and on from the time I was fourteen until I was somewhere around twenty — was a huge fan of G.G. Allin. (If you don’t want to click *that* link, I can only tell you that to describe what G.G. did in the name of art will get me such freaky google hits that I daren’t type any of it in here. Use your imagination and then double the gross factor and you’ll have an idea of what his stage shows were like.) I don’t remember how or why but my boyfriend got him (G.G.) to come perform in Columbus. The owners of the major alternative music venue had originally agreed to let G.G. perform there but they came to their senses and my boyfriend (I’m pretty sure he was an ex-boyfriend at the time) had to scurry around trying to find a new place for him to do the show. He finally found a private house. I, of course, missed the show but my boyfriend was so excited to tell me all about it. Apparently, G.G. did his usual thing and punched a woman out on stage. Geewhiz, isn’t that cool? Isn’t he daring? How brave, how innovative! Ughhh.
    I’d like to say that I was the one to dump said boyfriend but in truth we dumped each other periodically and I really have no idea who ended it and kept it ended. I’d like to take the credit but alas, to do so might be less than honest. Anyway, that boyfriend. He had that indefinable je ne sais quoi that most folks resort to calling charisma and everybody thought he was the cat’s meow. He’s directing (and starring in) underground movies and music videos now and probably continuing to treat young, impressionable women like shit. Hopefully, I’m wrong about that last part. People do change you know. Me, I’m living in suburbia just like he always said I would be. (That used to annoy me almost as much as the “Trendy Wendy” moniker his bandmates gave me.) Interestingly, one of the former TOPY participants is also living in suburbia, lactating, and generally being boring so art and crazy spirituality didn’t save her from such a fate either. Go figure.
    p.s. if I start getting majorly scary google hits from this entry, I’m going to banish it.
    {write me}

    June 11, 2002
    I went running last night and so I woke up hungry but Noah’s still sleeping and I can’t tear myself away from this blessed, uninterrupted computer time long enough to go grab something to eat.

    Want a fun and even edifying quiz? Try the Belief-o-Matic and discover what spiritual belief system works best for *you!* It’s the only quiz I feel compelled to display here.
    My top-five:

  • 1. Reform Judaism (100%) < ----no surprise there
  • 2. Unitarian Universalism (90%) < ----tried them before converting
  • 3. Liberal Quakers (89%) < ----tried them and *loved* them before converting
  • 4. Neo-Pagan (87%) < ----didn't work 'cuz I like dogma
  • 5. Sikhism (84%)< -----I know nothing about this
    Now here are Brett's top-five:

  • 1. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (100%)
  • 2. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (82%)
  • 3. Orthodox Quaker (80%)
  • 4. Liberal Quakers (74%)
  • 5. Reform Judaism (74%)

    I watched him take the test and basically our biggest differences are that he believes in salvation and he has a firmer vision of the after-life. Me, I’m not concerned with what happens after we die. I was surprised that the Conservative Christian/Protestant came up second for him and I think that might have been due to the way he answered one of the death questions. But note how low his numbers are for his alternate choices. He could never be a Conservative Christian because, for one, he thinks gay people aren’t going to burn in hell and he’s pro-choice, too. Politically, we’re always on the same side.
    I remember that during the last election he kept saying he wasn’t sure who he was voting for and I thought he was debating between Bush and Gore. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe I was actually married to a man who might even *consider* voting for Bush. I had this huge private crisis about it. Of course, I later found out he couldn’t decide between voting for Gore or Nader. I didn’t even consider voting for Nader because I knew he didn’t have a chance in hell and was terrified that what happened would happen.
    And you know, it’s been just as bad as I thought it would be. Let’s get a democrat in there next time, ok?
    {write me}

    • June 10, 2002

    {write me}

    June 9, 2002
    You know how I said I might need to own Fruitflesh? Well, I’m pretty sure that I have to own The Big Rumpus, too. It belongs on my bookshelf right between Dan Savage’s The Kid and Breeder. Great stuff!

    Noah is now drawing people with bodies. Before they were just heads with limbs coming out of their ears but now they have bodies (when he remembers to draw them). He’s never been a particularly art-y child but lately he’s been trying to communicate with his pictures and it’s so very cool to see him do that.

    Noah and I have a plan this summer which is “Operation: Wipe Your Own Tushie.” So far he’s doing pretty good although we, of course, still need to come in and do a quick survey and a back-up wipe. The other day he was sitting on the potty giving the “wipe my butt” call which is:”Tushie wipe! Stepping stool!” When Brett finally came in Noah said, “What took you so long, Daddy?”

    “Your mom and I were playing rock, paper, scissors to see who was coming in here,” Daddy answered.

    “Ahh,” Noah nodded. “And I guess you won, right, Daddy?”

    Clearly we’re doing a fine job instilling self-confidence.

    I’ve been joining some web cliques because the graphics are so nice and nifty (see at the bottom of my links list on the left then try to say that ten times fast). There’s one that I agree with in spirit — the straight but not narrow clique — but I don’t want to join it because that slogan has always bothered me. It sounds so defensive. I’m sure the people who wear the button, display the bumper sticker or join the clique are fine and dandy and on my side of the political fence but it bothers me nonetheless.

    “Now me, I’m straight but I like gay people. In fact, I personally know several gay people. Once a lesbian even sat next to me on the bus (at least I think she was a lesbian because she was wearing combat boots and didn’t shave her legs) even though there were other seats available and I was *fine* with that although I thought it was a little weird. I mean, like being gay means you don’t own a razor? Besides I think gay men are so *cute*, you know? Cute and funny like Jack on Will & Grace? Yes, I may be straight but I’m certainly not narrow!”

    There’s probably a nice “equal rights aren’t special rights” type clique out there and if I run across it, I’ll join it. It’s ok with me if people assume I’m gay. Why, I like gay people! Some of my best friends are gay! [insert annoying winkie smiley face here]
    {write me}

    June 8, 2002
    I got contributor’s copies to two magazines today. One was Brain, Child and the other was ePregnancy which is *gorgeous!* And it’s montly which will force another magazine targeted to the same audienece and run by a, ummm, less kind person to take a certain blurb off of their cover. There’s a pic of me in there for the roundtable discussion that I’m doing for them regularly but more importantly (more excitingly!) I’m on the masthead! Yup, I’m right there as assistant editor! How cool is that?

    It was a big mamawriter (my online writing group) day for me all the way around. I went to the library to get a bunch of things I had on reserve and that included Ayun’s book, The Big Rumpus and Gayle’s book Fruitflesh (which looks amazing, I gotta tell you, I think I’m going to have to shell out money to own this one). Then I was scanning some back issues of Cooking Light for recipe ideas and found an article by Katie. Man, those mamawriters get around!

    The mamawriter’s group is a useful support and connect group but we don’t do stuff like share work with each other for discussion. Some people do but most of us don’t. I, for one, am a little daunted by all the talent and success on there. It’s inspiring, definitely, but on bad days I read the list and feel lousy. As I told my therapist, feeling lousy is a great motivator. You can either take to drink or get off your ass and write a little. Seeing as how I hate the taste of booze, after a scant second or two of indulgent self-pity, I usually (but not always) want to go and write.

    I do think that I need to connect with a group of real-life writers and I don’t know why I haven’t just gotten myself to the creative non-fiction writer’s group here in town. I’m just a wee bit nervous about it. New experiences, new people, a new set of norms to master. Arghhh. Gimme a bunch of nursing mamas bickering about homeschooling and I’m right at home. But people who are gathering to get down and dirty about their creativity? I’m afraid I’ll be triggered into dying my hair some unlikely color again.

    I haven’t identified myself as a Writer in real life for a long time. Currently I say that I’m a freelance writer which to my mind is illustrative of the kind of “write 1000 words on morning sickness by this deadline — oh and make it funny” articles I write now. But Writer, well, I haven’t Written anything new in a long time. I’ve piddled around and reworked some old stuff but I haven’t Written anything worth mentioning since Noah was a wee babe.

    I really downplay the work I do now, even the stuff of which I’m most proud like my personal essays. I would talk to my therapist about it but she totally doesn’t get it. Hell, I’m writing, people are paying me (barely) for it and now I’m on a masthead. Why am I not jumping up and down?

    I think if this book idea or another like it works, I’ll feel like a Writer again. We shall see.

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