Phoning Home

"Do you think the reference to my woo-hoo was a little over the top the other day?" I couldn't help but notice that one of my friendly readers dropped me like a hot potato the same day I referenced my...well, you know what. Coincidence? Probably not is my guess. I don't want to notice those things. I really don't. Because then I get a little weird. A bit obsessed perhaps. I start thinking in big swirls and loops, and my head gets dizzy.

"What?!" my mother responded laughingly.

Maybe I should have said hello first. "The other day in a blog post I mentioned my woo-hoo? Do you think that was inappropriate in the context?"

More laughter. "I didn't even think about it."

Phwew. Good. In my world there are only four opinions about me that matter. God's. Mine. My parents'. And now that I'm married--Mr. Wicke's. That last one is a little tricky, though, because we are very different creatures.

I had first asked Mr. Wicke his opinion. "Well, I wouldn't have done it." But that's the problem. Of course he wouldn't have. He's a solid 7 kind of guy, whereas I live my life in a random patterns of 5's and 10's. He's even keel, and I'm the slight ripples Heaven sent to liven up his trip a little.

"So...you're saying you think I was wrong?"

"No. I'm just saying that it's not something I would have done."

"What. You think I told people something they didn't already know? Like they thought the baby slipped out of my belly button or something?"

He smiled, "You're so funny."

"So, is there some judgement there?"

"No."

"Oh, I think there is."

"No, there isn't."

"You are no help at all! I'm going to ask my mother."

My mother is my moral thermometer in a lot of ways: A 77 year old woman who can not bear the words fart or butt (so sorry, Mom) and taught me everything I know about being decent has a lot of moral pull in my book. "You can't worry," she continued, "about what anyone else thinks. People who do that never write anything, or never write anything good."

And that's what I'm really trying to do. I want to write like no one is reading. Which is when I started thinking, what I am I writing this blog for anyway? If I really want to write like no one is reading, why not do it in a journal? What the heck is my purpose here? This isn't some exercise in narcissism every day, is it? Or IS it? Ugh. I'd hate to think that...Big swirls and loops in my brain. BIG. I'm still dizzy days later.

And then she said, and I love her for it, "Besides," you're really only writing for me, anyway." She doesn't have a problem with my occasional colorful descriptions. Instead, I make her laugh. And she, in turn, calms my dizzy brain. Maybe someday we'll be even, but I doubt it.

Old Friends, Insecurities, and Waaay too Much Information

Can you imagine anything worse than seeing your old high school boyfriend four months after giving birth? Yes. How about when he just married a woman 10 years your junior? I mean, when she talks about crow's feet, she is actually referring to the anatomy of the bird whereas I am discussing a relatively new feature of my face.

But, as it turned out, she and I do have one thing in common. We both did something really physical in the last year. They ran a triathlon together, and I pushed something the size of a watermelon out of my woohoo. Of course her physical activity probably left her with a six pack and mine left me with a stomach pooch that in all likelihood I will never get rid of, but...whatever.

It isn't at all that I wanted to work any subtle charms on the old him; it's just that I don't want to be thought of as a dodged bullet. No woman, at least one that's honest, wants to be seen with a sense of relief, as in, "Wow! Glad I didn't get stuck with that one."

And these are the thoughts that I was dealing with as we all stood together visiting in my home town: me, Mr. Wicke, our children, said high school boyfriend, his wife, his brother, his brother's wife, their kids...you get the idea. As happy as I always am to see them, it is a group that is bound to bring up some insecurities, which I was doing my best to put behind me when Logan stood in front of me, poked me in the belly, and said, very loudly, "Your tummy's squishy."

Awkward pause inserted here.

Clearly it was up to me to break the silence. "Isn't she cute?" I laughed. And to her, "That's because there was a baby in there four months ago. Now go play."

Ahh, children. Why is it that they choose to be honest at the most inconvenient times? As the conversation continued, I considered this as well as the cost of renewing my gym membership, but then two things occurred to me: 1) I really hate the gym, and 2) the money might be better invested in a muzzle.

Why Boys are a Little Scary

We had a crowd for dinner on Sunday which included my newest sister in law, Collette. Poor thing. She endured a crash course in getting to know us. It went something like this:

I had just set out some snacks, which for Griffin is like a homing signal. He was right up in the middle of things digging in and making conversation with his aunt.

Griffin: "My peepee moved."

Collette: "Uh..."

Griffin: "It wiggled all by itself."

Collette: (awkward pause)

Griffin: "It does that when it's hungry."

To Collette, my personal apologies. I can't explain it. Then again, I'm not sure any woman can. And that is why boys scare us just the tiniest bit.

Clearing Up Some Vocabulary Questions

The other morning, after Logan had gone to school, Griffin asked for a movie and a snuggle, which means he wanted me to lie down next to him and keep him company. I revved up the DVD and plopped myself down, happy to put off housekeeping duties for a few minutes, but I will admit that my mind was elsewhere, busy reviewing the to-do list for the day until I heard this:

"It's not coming on...Sonofabitch."

Wha--!? I was stunned! It knocked the wind out of me for a few seconds. "Griffin! That is a terrible word. It's a potty word. We do not say that!"

He looked at me with big, innocent eyes. "Can I say 'I-yi-yi?'"

"...Uh, yeah?"

"Well,it's not coming on. I-yi-yi!"

Alrighty, then...Glad we got that cleared up.

Extended Hiatus

Some friends, quite happily, were able to extend their stay by a couple of days, so I won't be back officially until Wednesday. There is much to tell, like how I was artificially inseminated on Friday, right in the middle of all the company. Here's all I'll say about it: God's way of making babies is ever so much more enjoyable! Ouch! Plus I've been bloated and cramping since. Science may be amazing, but it sure isn't a lot of fun!

The Good News and the Bad News

No, boys. That isn't a lobster. You may want to duck out right now. For the rest of you who are still around: the chlomed (sp?) is working. In fact it is working so well that they can't do the insemination (moo--sorry that word always makes me think of cattle) this month because for someone like me who won't consent to selective reduction, 6 eggs is just too many. They or I am not interested in me birthing a litter.

So...it's good to know that my ancient ovaries still have some get up and go in 'em; in fact the nurse said she has never seen this result on such a low dosage of chlomed. That's good news!

But...it means we wait another month. Bummer.

Worse...I've been on the couch all day with a heating pad. It feels like someone took an air compressor and blew up my lower abdomen. Ouch!

Ain't infertility fun?!

Tit for Tat: Is that too Much to Ask For? Just Once?

Mr. Wicke and I are in the process of infertility treatment. In our twenties we went straight to adoption because we desperately wanted some kiddos and weren't interested in playing the odds of science. 50-50 chances rarely swing in my favor, let alone 70-30 or whatever other numbers were thrown at us. Adoption was absolutely right for us, and man! We have two of the best kids on the planet. However, we've also never ruled out trying treatment at some point. Now that we are pushing the upper limits of our thirties, it is sort of now or never, so we are going to take a crack at it before we're through and see if we can get a baby to grow in that there tummy of mine.

There are at least a thousand and two posts regarding infertility and the treatment thereof in my brain, most of which I am not interested in writing because it's too doggone exhausting. Besides, I'm not sure how to write about that without including lots of talk about menstruation, cycles, ovulation, and way too much information about my hoo-haw. (I think I just heard my three male readers pass out.) Sorry, fellas. But I have endured more poking and prodding in that general vicinity as of late than any girl should have to, and here's what I'll say about it:

I don't want a gynecologist to say, "Nice to see you," or "Nice to meet you." Because while he/she may have "seen" me, I don't really want to talk about it. And really, he/she didn't meet me at all. Then again I'm not sure what I would like my gynecologist to say. Silence would be awkward, but it would be better than some scenarios.

Like when my friend went in for her exam as a senior in high school and the doctor actually said with surprise, "Well, look at that! You're a virgin!" No, thank you. Or how about when I was home from college and mid-exam my doctor asks if I've seen his son (whom I dated once or twice) lately? Can you say awkward?

But what is the most appropriate thing to say in such a given situation? That's a tough one.

Maybe to even the playing field they could reveal something incredibly personal about themselves, like: "You may not realize it, but these are actually hair plugs," or "My dentist just diagnosed me with receding gums and gingivitis," some little tit for tat that I could tuck into my mental purse and say, "Okay, we're even." Maybe that would make me feel better?

Yeah, you're right. I doubt it.