I really don't want this to become an infertility blog. There are so many great ones out there, written with sensitivity and panache by ladies and gentlemen who are really out there in the IF trenches ("Stirrup Queens" and "Maybe if You Just Relax", I'm talkin' to you), that I don't feel the need to start jabbering ad nauseum about my lady parts. Or sperm samples. Or creepy, cold specula.
But there are days when something will hit me in the gut and remind me of my baby-less state, days that just goad me into penning an IF post. It's not that I WANT to be that girl who waves her arms and cyber-shouts, "read my infertility rant!". I'd really rather write about DIY or this fabulous pair of sequined Doc Martens I found on Pinterest. But seriously, read my infertility rant.
Joe (although I do indeed love him dearly, I refuse to refer to him by the colloquial IF-community blog term, DH, or "dear husband" - barf) and I carpool most days to save gas money on our daily half-hour commute. This arrangement usually gives me some time to kill before work, and I'll usually spend it at Barnes & Noble - because I could drop serious amounts of cash in that Liber Libri paradise.
This morning I was nosing around for books on the IVF process, because reading about how a doctor is going to aspirate ovum through my vaginal wall is just how I get my kicks these days. I went to the Pregnancy and Childbirth section and was doing that sideways-head-tilt thing at all the book spines, when an employee approached me to ask if I needed help. I verbalized my request, and she gave me a slightly (or was it just me?) perplexed look.
"You'll have to go to the Health and Self-Help section."
I couldn't help drawing on the oft-used but never not funny Pretty Woman shopping-joke ("I don't think we have anything here for you. Please leave.") as I trudged to the bookshelves in question. Health and Self-Help, that's me. Much like Vivian the kind-hearted hooker, I didn't belong in the Pregnancy and Childbirth section. Sigh.
After selecting a book and claiming one of those big, comfy chairs that nearly always seem to be next to some jackass on his cell phone, I flipped to the last chapter - the one right before the helpful but repetitive glossary of IF terms (is "holy-effing-expensive" in there?). Because that's what I do. I have an insatiable need for success stories.
After some blah, blah injectables, blah, blah, beta levels, I found the Miracle Baby Chapter. I was reading about the titular magic baby snuggling with the homemade blanket his mother knitted long, long ago - before IF was even on her mental radar - and started thinking about the pastel cotton crocheted thing I never quite finish, and then I'm drippy-teary-eyed in the stupid Barnes & Noble, of all places.
So I put the book away and headed out into the glaring morning sun, and decided to maybe pick up that blanket-in-progress again, and keep plugging away at it. Because when it really comes down to it, that's all any of us can do.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Yes, Virginia, people do cry in Barnes & Noble.
I really don't want this to become an infertility blog. There are so many great ones out there, written with sensitivity and panache by ladies and gentlemen who are really out there in the IF trenches ("Stirrup Queens" and "Maybe if You Just Relax", I'm talkin' to you), that I don't feel the need to start jabbering ad nauseum about my lady parts. Or sperm samples. Or creepy, cold specula.
But there are days when something will hit me in the gut and remind me of my baby-less state, days that just goad me into penning an IF post. It's not that I WANT to be that girl who waves her arms and cyber-shouts, "read my infertility rant!". I'd really rather write about DIY or this fabulous pair of sequined Doc Martens I found on Pinterest. But seriously, read my infertility rant.
Joe (although I do indeed love him dearly, I refuse to refer to him by the colloquial IF-community blog term, DH, or "dear husband" - barf) and I carpool most days to save gas money on our daily half-hour commute. This arrangement usually gives me some time to kill before work, and I'll usually spend it at Barnes & Noble - because I could drop serious amounts of cash in that Liber Libri paradise.
This morning I was nosing around for books on the IVF process, because reading about how a doctor is going to aspirate ovum through my vaginal wall is just how I get my kicks these days. I went to the Pregnancy and Childbirth section and was doing that sideways-head-tilt thing at all the book spines, when an employee approached me to ask if I needed help. I verbalized my request, and she gave me a slightly (or was it just me?) perplexed look.
"You'll have to go to the Health and Self-Help section."
I couldn't help drawing on the oft-used but never not funny Pretty Woman shopping-joke ("I don't think we have anything here for you. Please leave.") as I trudged to the bookshelves in question. Health and Self-Help, that's me. Much like Vivian the kind-hearted hooker, I didn't belong in the Pregnancy and Childbirth section. Sigh.
After selecting a book and claiming one of those big, comfy chairs that nearly always seem to be next to some jackass on his cell phone, I flipped to the last chapter - the one right before the helpful but repetitive glossary of IF terms (is "holy-effing-expensive" in there?). Because that's what I do. I have an insatiable need for success stories.
After some blah, blah injectables, blah, blah, beta levels, I found the Miracle Baby Chapter. I was reading about the titular magic baby snuggling with the homemade blanket his mother knitted long, long ago - before IF was even on her mental radar - and started thinking about the pastel cotton crocheted thing I never quite finish, and then I'm drippy-teary-eyed in the stupid Barnes & Noble, of all places.
So I put the book away and headed out into the glaring morning sun, and decided to maybe pick up that blanket-in-progress again, and keep plugging away at it. Because when it really comes down to it, that's all any of us can do.
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