sweet relief and a zombie run

While we still don't have solid answers, the MRI results are in and the doctors are saying the mass in Sid's neck is most likely not cancer, but a benign thyroglossal cyst.  While it will require surgery, from what I understand, it's a fairly simple procedure with minimal scarring, and the likelihood of it coming back is fairly small.  Sid also does not have MS, but a cervical osteophyte: in layman's terms, he's got a bone spur in his neck.  We are so relieved.  I can't even tell you how it feels to not have the weight of that worry constantly bogging me down.

So I ran my zombie race on Saturday unburdened by personal bullshit!  I actually didn't run much of it at all, the ground was way too rocky, uneven, and muddy.  The times I was running, I was full out sprinting and trying not to slip and fall.  I pulled something in my right ankle, which I totally didn't even feel until after the race was over, and my back got wrenched pretty well when I did some hard twists trying to keep my balance in the slick clay mud.  Overall, I enjoyed the shit out of that race and definitely intend to come back again next year.  It was worth every fucking penny: I had the time of my goddamn life out there, belly crawling through stinky mud, getting shocked, and crawling through mucky water up to my neck.  Dirty as hell at the finish, but so much fun.

big changes at Manson Homestead IV

No, I'm not pregnant.  Good lord, perish the thought.

I'm starting nursing school in September.  This is a big deal!  HUGE!  This is something I have wanted to do for ages and couldn't work up the courage to go through with.  Because, you know, it would be difficult.  And maybe I wouldn't be good at it.  Just trust me when I say there were myriad reasons why I constantly talked myself out of taking the big step and actually applying.  And every single one of them was my anxiety talking.

The fact that I recognized it and talked myself out of being afraid is another big deal.  Because lets face it, I am a huge ball of worry.  I don't have full blown anxiety attacks anymore, but I still manage to give myself palpitations over silly shit.  In this instance, I had an epiphany.  There really is no other way to describe it.  I realized that I was letting my fear rule me.  I was letting my fear dictate the course that the rest of my life would take.  And goddamn if I didn't sit down that very day and apply to nursing school, because you know what?  Fuck that.

Another thing I went ahead and did even though the thought made me vaguely nauseated is sign up for a Run For Your Lives race.  I'm gonna be chased by zombies!  On an obstacle course!  A couple of my friends have done it and said it was a blast, and I have planned on doing one for ages but never did because Landwhale.  Fuck that, too.  I've lost 15 pounds, I'm lighter than I was when I got pregnant with Spagett, and I'm in way better shape.  Still slow as fuck, but getting better.  I'm training for a half marathon, for gods sake, I can handle a good ol' fashioned apocalypse.

a quarter for your vomit

Spagett loves money.  He calls it "doy" and every time he finds a penny on the sidewalk, you'd think he won the lottery, the way his face lights up.  He loves his money.  This is turning out to be problematic.

There was a quarter on the floor.  Fuck if I know where he found it, but it was keeping him occupied while I changed his diaper.  He was turning it in his fingers, looking at it, dropping it on his chest, and then he started to stick it in his mouth.  I used Mom Voice: don't you put that money in your mouth!

BLOOP, down the hatch it went.  Right down his throat.  My first reaction was one of panic.  Holy shit, my kid just swallowed a fucking quarter, is he going to choke to death?  But Spagett was screaming and crying too loud to be choking.  So then I started laughing.  Maybe that was mean of me, but I was envisioning a shit-coated quarter, and how I was going to make Sid get that diaper and just let him wonder what had happened.

So, I was laughing.  And Spagett was freaking out so badly it's pathetic, so I held my arms out to him and he flew at me for a hug.  But I was still laughing, and I couldn't stop.  I tried to tell him it's okay, you'll be fine between giggles and I'm pretty sure he couldn't understand what I was saying.

And then he started gagging.  I couldn't tell if it was gagging like choking, or gagging like puking, so I pulled him away from me and just then he bent over and sprayed a fantastic amount of vomit onto the rug in front of me.  Dinner and dessert and snack, all over the floor.

So then he was upset about that.  There were strings of vomit hanging off his face, he was sobbing, and I am officially going to hell because I was still laughing.

He calmed down once I stopped laughing and started cleaning, but I'd be lying if I said I could see straight through the tears in my eyes.  And as I scooped up chunks of cherries and tortilla chips from the carpet, I found the quarter.

I wiped it down with Lysol and clipped it onto the fridge.  It is officially a keepsake.

making progress and hitting roadblocks

When I started running, I was horrible at it. I mean, really, really horrible. And I slowly started getting better, but Sid felt like I wasn't getting better fast enough, so I started the Couch To 5k program.

I had no trouble running nearly 3 miles today, okay? I've gotten better. I ran my fastest mile today. I've gotten a lot better. My average pace is definitely a lot faster than when I started. I've really gotten a lot better.

But I'm still slower than Sid. That doesn't bother me, though it seems to really bug him. My ultimate goal is to be able to run a half marathon, 13.1 miles, and today I did just under 3 miles, so the goal is still out of reach, but I'll get there eventually. I want to focus on distance. I don't care how slow I am, as long as I get there in the end. But Sid wants me to focus on speed. Who gives a shit how slow I am, if I can run 13.1?

Maybe I should just focus on speed for a while. It would be great to be able to go running with Sid, and keep up without difficulty. But he walks faster than me all the time, anyway, so why should I have to move faster than I'm comfortable with, just to keep up with the pace he sets? I do that all the time as it is. But I run to slow for him. The pace I set makes his ankles hurt. BITCH, THE PACE YOU SET MAKES ME HORK UP MY LUNGS. Needless to say, it's coming down to the moment where I am going to have to make a decision on what to work on next, because I'm a week away from finishing this Couch To 5k thing. Part of me wants to continue on with my own goal, and part wants to make this effort for Sid. But what if I work my ass off, run faster, and it's still not good enough? I would not be a very happy Landwhale.

six teeth

We knew Spagett was teething, but it seemed like every time we checked his mouth, there was a new tooth lurking under the surface of his gums. First it was his canines, then his two upper front teeth, and then his two lower fronts. They're all perfectly content to just sit there, visible under the gums, and give him hell. SIX TEETH, OH MAH LAWD.

Well, one finally broke through today, and it's been cause for much celebration. FIVE MORE TO GO, HOLY SHIT, WE CAN DO THIS. And then someone had to go and piss in Sid's cornflakes and tell him that this is small potatoes, just wait until the baby gets his molars. To which I say: dude, why must you be such a twatwaffle?

So Spagett is still a grump, but we're getting through it as best we can. To add to the kid's misery, he has learned to sit up, and has mastered rolling over, and now he knows he can get mobile and that he's missing out on a bunch of stuff that he could get into if he could crawl. This poor kid has been desperately trying to get onto his hands and knees and go, and he just doesn't quite have the coordination, or the strength. He ends up scooting backward on his stomach every time.

I think it's hilarious, and have been encouraging him to practice at every opportunity. OH HAI, SPAGETT, I AM GOING TO LEAVE YOU HERE ON YOUR STOMACH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR WITH YOUR TOYS JUST OUT OF REACH WHILE I GO DO SOMETHING ELSE FOR A MINUTE. Oh, the humanity! And when I come back, he's a foot away from where I left him, having scooted away from his toys, and now he's lying on his back and watching the ceiling fan. Oh, the HUMANITY!

Did I mention I'm a total sadist?

playing catch-up

Life has been hectic here at Manson Homestead the Second. Between Sid's crazy work schedule and taking care of Spagett, the only real down-time I've had in a while is using the toilet. Which, let's face it, is not really my idea of leisure time.

Spagett is four months old, and growing like a weed. He's been showing interest in solid food for almost a month now, and even though I hadn't planned on starting him on solids until about six months, he seemed ready so those plans went right out the window, like all plans any mother makes! Once a day, usually in the afternoon or early evening, he gets a solid: usually banana, applesauce or rice cereal. He's had avocados, and this week we'll be introducing butternut squash. As an aside, I'm making his food myself, not buying the jarred kind, and it's working out great.

While Spagett's been doing well, I've been struggling with anxiety. It has gotten progressively worse since his birth, and I kept thinking it would ease, but it doesn't. I worry about some pretty wackadoo shit, too. It's not like I'm your typical worrywart mother. No, I'm freaking out about things like the floor caving in when we're up on the second floor. Things like the house falling over and Spagett falling out a window or having a dresser fall onto him. Things that I know will never, ever happen. And yet I can't get the fear out of my head. Along with that are legitimate, but exaggerated fears as well. When we're out with Sid and we stop for gas, when Sid goes into the station to pay, I worry that someone is going to jack the car and drive off with me and Spagett. When I leave the house, even though there is no sign of a break-in, I become convinced someone has gotten into the house and is lurking in one of the closets. The other week there was a thunderstorm, and while I normally love a good thunderstorm, I was scared. The wind, the thunder, the sound of the rain... none of it comforted me as it used to. Instead, it dredged up terror. Since it's not going away like I thought it would, I am going to speak to my doctor. We'll see what she says.

In other news, the community pool opened up over the weekend, and I would be down there right now swimming if it weren't for Spagett. I want him to enjoy it, too! When he goes in for his four month checkup, I mean to ask his pediatrician about taking him in the pool. I have a swimsuit and a sunhat all ready for him, and all I need to buy is a swim diaper. But I have questions about the pool water, and sunscreen, and that kind of thing. Before I just dive headlong into things, I want to discuss it with someone who knows more than I do.

Oh, I almost forgot! Spagett has said his first words! He has been parroting us for weeks, very garbled and not-quite-words, but this was an unmistakable "I love you!" Unfortunately, I didn't catch it on video. He said it again, and I managed to capture that, but it isn't as clear as when he said it the first time. Everyone who's heard it agrees that he said "I love you" but you be the judge.

perhaps I spoke too soon

It's like a law of the internet that once you commit something to type on said internets, whatever you just said about whatever is going on in your life will be proven false.

Spagett has hit a growth spurt, or found a mighty appetite, because my breasts have not had a break in almost a week. This kid is just eating and eating and eating. Up every hour during the night, nursing for an hour at a time, and my wagon is draggin'. He pukes like Old Faithful after almost every feeding, too, which has me worried he's got reflux or something. I don't understand how you can eat until you puke, and then lie there and insist you want to eat more. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

He refuses to sleep in his bassinet, to make matters worse. He could be dead asleep, having not even awakened during his burping, and the moment I lay him down in his co-sleeper bassinet, he's wide awake. He sleeps on the couch, in my bed, in his swing, in his carseat, on my chest, in my arms... everywhere but where I want him to. I don't understand that, either. But for now, I've given up that particular battle: he wants to sleep on my chest, and I just want to SLEEP, so that was a quick resolution to that.

It has to get better soon, or I'm going to lose my mind.

just call me the Bitchy Wizzle Beast

I can't stop peeing.

Seriously.

I wake up every hour and a half during the night to go take the hugest horse pisses, and I can't understand where all this water is coming from. Because I make sure not to drink anything after 6 pm. And yet I'm still up all night having these huge bladder-busting wees. Wizzles so big that it's physically painful to get out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, and then act of voiding pisses off my uterus and gives me braxton-hicks contractions.

Holy shit, that's a huge fucking piss.

Added to the fact that I'm barely sleeping at night with all this peeing, I'm not used to the heat and I am DYING. DYING I SAY. Tired and overheated, that's my Florida Experience so far.

I fucking hate Florida.

the kind of person I might actually despise

If I met myself on a message board, or even in real life, I think I'd find myself to be exactly the kind of person I claim to hate: one of those people who just get lucky.

Okay, we certainly struggled to get pregnant, but after that? It's been pretty smooth sailing. I haven't gained a ton of weight. There have been no scares with contractions or anything like that. I'm not terribly uncomfortable like a lot of women at seven months. All my bloodwork has been totally normal: no false positives on the AFP screen, no antibodies, no high blood glucose... it's been absolutely by-the book.

And my thyroid has behaved so well! Lots of women with hypothyroidism find that they must increase their medication while pregnant. I've made it to seven months without needing a single dosage change, and beyond that, my TSH has been progressively lower and lower at each check. I started this pregnancy with my TSH fluctuating between about 2 to 2.5, and when it was checked last week, it came back at 0.8. That's great! That's fucking fantastic! I never expected to be one of those rare lucky ones whose thyroid function actually improves: if this improvement continues, I may be able to stop taking meds altogether, and wouldn't that be nice?

Now, where do I get off, being so goddamn lucky? I just about make myself sick. Trust me that I know I could have it a lot worse than I do, and I am so grateful that this has been, all in all, a very easy and fairly enjoyable pregnancy so far (if we conveniently forget the vomiting and heartburn). I wouldn't be surprised if I made up for all this sunshine-and-roses with a heinous labor and delivery.

home sweet home

Staying with Sid's dad and grandmother was an exercise in patience and tongue-biting, and it would be an understatement to say I am glad to be home. I am fucking relieved to be home. It was just one thing after another while we were there, and I was on my last nerve due to all the traveling and lack of sleep... so yeah. It was interesting, to say the least.

Elder Manson started in on his "well, I guess I have to take back the baseball bat and the cleats and the glove..." and I cut him down in a cold minute. "That's awfully mean, why can't a girl use those things?" And he hemmed and hawed and tried to feed me a lame line of bullshit about boys and girls sizing being different. Close, but no cigar, Elder Manson! Try again!

And then we found out that Grandmother, Eldest Manson, has failed her drivers test and continues to drive. Blind in one eye and hardly able to get about under her own steam, this woman is still plonking herself down behind the wheel to operate a vehicle. I am staying far, far away from that one.

And then the water was terribly hard and dried out my skin and caused such a pizza-faced breakout that I was afraid to look in the mirror. Nothing like walking around with a bad case of the zits to really boost yer self-esteem!

And then, and then, and then! We ate off plastic silverware the entire time we were there because someone, I don't know who and I don't care who, simply rinsed off the dirty silverware and stuck that shit back in the drawer. Didn't scrub it with hot water and soap, didn't run it through the dishwasher, just stuck that crusty mess back to be used again. I'm not much of a housekeeper myself, but the overall state of that kitchen was appalling. My kitchen may be cluttered and the porcelain sink may be in dire need of a bleaching, but for fuck's sake, at least it's clean!

I keep telling myself that they mean well, but I can only tolerate the elder Mansons in small doses.

the lesser of two evils

Remember we were so worried about Sid moving to his next command in November? It is no longer an issue.

Because we're moving in October.

This is hardly much better, because now we must rush to find a house. And a doctor or midwife. Sid is taking two weeks off work for us to go down to Flori-duh and attempt to find these things. It's happening very fast: we only found out on Friday, and this coming Friday, we're starting our househunting trip. We've been trying to get the house in some semblance of order NOW, so that we don't have to worry about it later, but it's hard. We had a lot of clothes to go through, a lot of crap to sift through in the back room where we kept a lot of our clutter.

And we haven't even begun packing yet.

The move itself is going to suck, but we're going to have plenty of help, so it won't be unbearable. Sid's dad (Elder Manson) and my dad (Elder Baldwin - don't even ask) are both going to come to assist. And also, our neighbors here will help, because we helped them move in. And then when we get to Flori-duh, my sister said she'd also come and lend a hand.

So I think we'll be okay. Moving in October, though it puts us on a tight schedule to find a house, is the better alternative in my mind. This way gives us some time to settle in and unpack before Spagett arrives. We wouldn't really have that opportunity if we moved a month later.

As you can tell, I am trying very hard to focus on the silver lining.

bitching and stuff

Today I was surprised to find that my black maternity pants, which have been slightly too big this whole time I've otherwise been comfortably wearing maternity clothes, finally fit. And it's not because I've bulked up, because I've still not gained much weight (most charts estimate that at 20 weeks, a woman should have gained about ten pounds, give or take a few... I've gained three). My too-big maternity pants aren't fitting now because of weight gain - though I wouldn't mind that! - but because of the gut explosion.

By the way, I'm STILL sick. Not all the time, and definitely not to the point of vomiting, but STILL. And over the weekend, after I'd gone almost a whole month without vomiting, we ate mexican and out of nowhere... OOPS, I HAVE TO PUKE. Oh my FSM, was that ever unpleasant. I am so fucking over this pregnancy bullshit. Just hand me the newborn and lets have done with this!

Sid and I finally agreed on names (we'd had first names picked for a while, but were stumped on middle names), both of which I'm super-excited about (and no, we did not use "Edward"). When Elder Manson heard what we'd settled on a few months ago, he said they "sounded like black names" and I was forced to explain to him that they had their roots in Irish and Old-English. He's going to shit himself when he hears what the middle names are, because they're certainly different.

this is freaky and I kind of don't like it

All my life (and I do mean literally "all my life"), eating meat off the bone has been totally beyond me. I can't do it. It makes me gag, ruins my appetite, and is just an all-around icky experience. IT IS TERRIBLY GROSS. It is one of the reasons I decided to just stop eating meat altogether, rather than try to justify my strange meat-eating preferences (NO, I won't eat that, it's got that funny line of fat through it. NO, I won't eat that, look at the blubber along that edge. NO, I wont eat that... and so on and so forth.).

Our neighbors invited us over for dinner this past Saturday, and ribs were on the menu. And surprisingly enough, I said "you know, I liked steak when I never have before, so I'm willing to give ribs a shot" and said I'd be there. And you know what? I LIKED IT.

D:

Yeah. Miss EW I CAN'T EAT IT OFF THE BONE ITS GROSS AND MAKES ME PUKE... ate ribs. And found them delicious.

This is worse than when I started levothyroxine and felt all weird in my own body. This absolutely trumps that whole experience. IT IS WEIRD. And to be honest, it really freaks me out and I kind of wish I could just go back to eating like normal. That will come in time, of course, but I'm impatient.

In better news, I broke down and started taking Zantac 75 for my wicked heartburn and it is HEAVEN. I can eat again! Unfortunately, I only caved and bought the stuff after a day in which my heartburn was so bad, I became violently ill and could not make it to the bathroom in time to hurl up Tums and stomach acid. But...RELIEF. YES. It's awesome.

one track-mind

I don't even know how it got started. We were hanging out with our neighbors down at the mexican restaurant, and got to talking about how we found out we were going to be moving in November (OMFG, SERIOUSLY, NAVY?) and we were trying to get a good idea of what houses we could afford compared to what we wanted, and how long it would take us to find a good one. The conversation turned to financing and mortgages and insurance. And eventually, it turned to houseboats.

My ears pricked up. Houseboats have always fascinated me, and when I was little, I sort of really wanted to own one. I love boats, love the water and I adore the idea of combining those two in my very own living space. I didn't mention this to Sid, but apparently he fell in love with the idea, as well. He is constantly online looking at boats (as am I, if I might be honest), and it dominates most of our conversations.

Because now we are weighing the pros and cons of living in a houseboat. We're still in the research phase, where we are emailing the naval base we're moving to, and asking about dockside fees and hurricane evacuations and all that lovely stuff. Because HELLO, we're moving to Florida, we are going to face a hurricane sooner or later!

Right now, though, a houseboat is still looking like a viable alternative for us. We've already found things we aren't going to like so much (such as lack of storage space) and things we are going to LOVE (such as the ease of simply moving our entire house to the next naval base, rather than dealing with the stress of packing and finding a new place).

I won't be terribly upset if this doesn't pan out. But if it does? HOLY SHIT. I think I will have to invite every one of my friends out to my place for a mini-vacation.

"honeymoon phase" my ass

It's been said, in numerous places around the internet and in books, that the second trimester is the "honeymoon phase" of pregnancy. You are not ill from morning sickness anymore, and you are not yet so huge that everything sucks.

IT IS A LIE.

At least I'm not throwing up anymore. I keep telling myself that. At least I'm not throwing up! But my stomach still often feels like I've swallowed acid. I get to feeling like if I puke, it will just be gallons of lemon juice. Nothing makes it better. Except eating. Sometimes, if I can force myself to choke down something, it helps. But not always. It's a bit of a crapshoot.

There is still so much that I used to enjoy that I still can't imagine eating. Former staples of my diet, which leaves me bereft: cereal, pizza, spaghetti. Cheese. For FSM's sake, CHEESE. But you know what I do like? STEAK. Seriously. Even though I have never enjoyed it in my life, and have spent the last ten years of my life avoiding most animal flesh, I now like steak.

In my own head, if not out loud, I've begun referring to Spagett the Alien Fetus as a "parasitic meatetarian".

in which I eat crow

For all the complaining I did about maternity clothes, I got mine in the mail today and I find I must eat crow. The jeans - which I bitched only came in one light colored denim, low rise - are actually really cute and fit great. They fit a damn sight better than my regular jeans with the button and zipper undone!

And the shirts, which I bitched came in funny colors - and I nerved myself up to buy one in a funny color - were actually a lot more muted than I expected. Instead of dayglo aqua, it's a deeper teal color, still bright but not glaring. The other shirts in boring black or white also fit beautifully, and I could get away with wearing them now, as the drapey material is quite flattering to my beer gut.

So I was expecting to be disappointed, and instead, I find myself pleasantly surprised.

Also, it appears that the military has freed up some money and we may be moving in August as originally planned. So that is excellent news, but as always, we'll have to wait and see.

apparently "knocked up"="no sense of style"

(For all the bitching I'm about to do, I want you to keep in mind that I'm just grateful this is even something I get to bitch about at all.)

Maternity clothes suck.

Hell, all clothes suck. Shopping is always such a huge pain in the ass when you don't fit the rail-thin ideal, but instead have a very generously shaped hourglass figure. When your arms and legs are freakishly long compared to normal folk.

Yeah, and it's worse when you're shopping for maternity clothes. Apparently your sense of style goes out the window as you approach whale-like proportions. Apparently when "normal" clothes stop fitting, bitches will take what they can get and color and style be damned.

I have trolled every online maternity store I could find, and either the stuff is ugly and overpriced, or just ugly. Old Navy, for example, has some cute shirts that I'd love to have. IN NORMAL COLORS. Dayglo colors don't look on a pasty cave-creature like me. Dayglo is a bad, bad thing when you are as fair-skinned as I am, because skin that white is downright reflective, okay? DAYGLO IS BAD.

And the jeans. Oh, don't get me started on the jeans. In my size, with a long inseam, there is only one - count 'em, ONE - pair of jeans available at Old Navy. And the other sites I checked were all hideously overpriced: I've never paid $200 for a pair of jeans in my whole life, and I'm not about to start now. (BTW, why is it a "pair" of jeans? I don't get it.)

I suppose I shouldn't be getting this riled up about it, but what the hell am I supposed to do when I absolutely cannot fit my regular clothes anymore? I'm rapidly approaching that point: the gut is noticeably more prominent, and my jeans stopped buttoning - and zipping - two weeks ago (thank FSM for Belly Bands). There are only a few shirts that I wear anymore on account of the gut, as the rest are so clingy and skintight I loathe the thought of peeling the fuckers off at the end of the day. Because right now? I don't look pregnant. I just look like I'm sporting a very fine specimen of beer gut.

internet, meet Spagett

Sid came with me to my appointment yesterday, and in hindsight, I'm so glad he did. I wasn't expecting to get an ultrasound, but the doctor wanted to do one "for dating purposes". Turns out Spagett is right on schedule, only one whopping day off from the due date I'd been given based on my last menstrual period.

It was surreal. There on the screen was this little stubby thing wiggling around with it's tiny heart just fluttering away right in the middle of it's blobby little body. It was just an image on the screen until I realized holy shit, this tiny alien-headed gummy bear on the screen is growing inside me. Until that moment, this pregnancy had been just an idea, an abstraction. Yes, my body had changed in all kinds of weird ways and intellectually, I knew there was something going on in there, but seeing it made it real.

Afterward, Sid told me, "I thought it looked like Baron Werner Ünderbheit."



I think he's got a point.

who knew...

...that belching could feel so great? Because I hadn't been able to burp for the last couple of weeks without everything in my stomach rising up in my throat. And the past few days have been mercifully free of that phenomenon. I CAN BURP AGAIN, OMG! :D

So yeah, I guess I'm beginning the long, slow crawl back to feeling like a human being again. I have nothing but respect for those women who suffer from hyperemesis gravidarum, because if it were me, honestly, no matter how much I wanted the baby at the end, I'm not sure anything could convince me to continue feeling that awful. Also, I have a massive phobia of throwing up. MASSIVE. I fight that gag reflex to the bitter end, and then I cry. Personally, I am not sure I could handle being that sick for that long.

That friend of mine who was rubbing her pregnancy in my face will be jealous that I'm feeling better, because she's got hyperemesis. I feel bad for it, but on the other hand, the part of me that's not-so-nice says that turnabout is fair play. But I won't stoop that low. I really, really won't. Even though I'd like to.

welcome ICLWers!

I guess an introductory post is in order, huh? Better late than never, right?

I'm Starky (not my real name). I'm 24, turning 25 next month. I grew up in Amish Country, Pennsylvania and I miss it dearly. My husband, Sid, (also not his real name) is 29. We've known each other for almost eight years, and been married for about three and half. Sid is in the Navy, and we both view it as a means to an end, it's not really something that we use to define our lives - he actually hates being called a sailor, just like I hate being referred to as a military wife.

Sid went out on deployment this past year, and when he came back we decided we wanted to start our family. A homecoming baby would be so CUTE, right? Well, it didn't work out the way we'd planned. It turns out that Sid's got low sperm mobility, high viscosity, and low volume. We were told that our best shot at conceiving would be with intrauterine insemination. Sid was not ready to admit defeat, and I spent a lot of time on this blog bitching about it.

We tried to conceive on our own for nine cycles, and I know that's not a lot by some standards, but you ladies know how even one month can feel like an eternity. The time.just.dragged. And then I had this crazy dream that I took a pee test and three lines showed up. One was pink, which meant I was pregnant. One was orange, which meant I was having twins. And the last one was black, which meant that the pregnancy was viable.

Three days later, I took a pee test for shits and giggles, not really expecting to see anything but that one familiar, depressing line. And there were two. It remains to be seen whether the rest of the dream was accurate as well.