The Good, The Bad, The Insane

I got a call from the genetic counselor. The results from my NT scan show a 1:10,000 chance of Down's and a 1:2088 chance of Trisomy 18. Both of these risk levels are way lower than what one would expect based on my age, so it's great news.

The not-so-great news is that my free beta HCG levels are in the 0.5 percentile. Low. And apparently this result puts me at risk for pre-eclampsia, pre-term labor, miscarriage, placental 'issues', growth restrictions, and clinical insanity. I've already started developing the latter. Because, it seems that it is just one thing have another. After the bleeding episode, I walked around for several weeks terrified that I would miscarry at any moment. And just when I got more comfortable with this pregnancy and this baby we had that fateful ultrasound that cast us into fear and sadness for another few weeks. And NOW! After getting some AMAZING news I can't even relish it for 30 seconds without learning that DUDE, I am one high-risk mama.

I DO thank God that so far all indications point to a healthy Cleitus. But I wish that I could really love this pregnancy. That I could, upon telling a friend, not feel a stab of fear that I might have to untell. That I could buy maternity clothes without wondering if I'll need to shove them in the back of a closet to avoid seeing them. That I could be happy that I don't have a doctor's appointment for 3.5 weeks (the longest I've gone since my BFP!) instead of wishing I could go in to hear the heartbeat every week. And that on the mornings I wake up without feeling nauseous I could be happy instead of poking my boobs to make sure I still have some pregnancy symptoms.

The One Where Loretta Reveals that she has Problems

I am a planner. I enjoy nothing more than devising a plan and then seeing it be executed. When I was in college the most exciting day of the year was when registration for the next semester started. And it wasn't just because I was just so nerdy that I couldn't wait to decide on new classes (although, I am that nerdy). It was because I could make a PLAN! A SCHEDULE! Oh rapture!

I would first decide on the courses I wanted or needed to take and write them into an hour-by-hour grid that I made up on my computer. This grid usually went from about 7 am until 10 pm. Then I'd add all my extra activities to the list: field hockey, eating house officers meeting, etc etc. And then? The completely insane fun part began! I'd look at the open blocks in my schedule and figure out where other aspects of my life fit. No classes until 11:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays meant that those were perfect days to go to the gym first thing and then eat a leisurely breakfast at the Commons (the cafeteria) before heading back to my room to shower and get dressed. The hour-long break between my 8:30 and 10:30 classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday that some may view as inconvenient? Just the perfect amount of time to practice the piano! So I'd write all these things in my wonderful little grid and relish the precise efficiency of my planned days. I printed out my grid and stuck a copy in my library carrel, a copy in my room and a copy in my planner. I loved the planning and even more, I loved knowing exactly what I would be doing at 2:36 on Thursday afternoon.

Now that I am in a stage of life where I have NO IDEA even where I might be living (and in what kind of house/apartment? and on how much of a salary? and what kind of hours will Victor have?) in as little as a month from now? It's MADDENING! Any day now Victor could get called for an interview and any number of days after that he could get a job offer and then...CHAOS! My mortal enemy could come knocking on the door with little or no warning.

Hold me.

The fact that I can't plan out one specific route means I spend a good portion of my mental energy planning out lots of less-specific routes. I plan out when we could move, what kind of house we could buy or whether we'd rent for a while first for pretty much every decent-sounding job opportunity Victor mentions to me. I spend hours perusing payscale.com to estimate what Victor's salary might be in any particular job. Then I spend more hours drooling at houses on realtor. com based on said salary range. Sometimes I even write out a mock budget to reassure myself that it could work. Whenever a job opportunity falls through I feel like I'm losing something. I had made PLANS! What about that cute little townhouse within walking distance to Victor's prospective office? Lost, forever! While my melodrama may cause you to roll your eyes it causes me a great deal of emotional distress. Nothing is quite so bad as plans not working.

I'm feeling this pain even more so as we try to conceive. Every month I think about if it does work, when we'll tell family, when we'll find out the sex, and how fantastic it would be to have a February March April , no MAY! baby. And every time my temperature drops or I see just one pink line I have to regroup and tell myself that we have another chance. And when I finally do get those two pink lines ? When Victor finally does get that great job offer? It won't matter how inconvenient I had previously thought the timing might have been. It'll be time to plan, for real.

Things that Have Made me Cry this Week:

-A failed experiment at work

-My workload in general

-Reading a note that one of my oldest friends was in labor

-Hearing that said friend had a beautiful baby boy

-A really slow truck on a two-lane highway with no passing

-The birth of every baby on the SIX baby reality shows I watched during my sick/mental health day

-When the kids on 16 and Pregnant gave their baby to an adoptive couple

-When I couldn't grate an apple without it becoming a mess

-When cycle #3 of trying to conceive ended, this morning

Lock Me Up and Throw Away the Key

Forgive me Internet (and parking authority), for I have sinned. I have forsaken the narrow path of good and turned to a life of crime.

Yesterday was Free Cone Day at Ben and Jerry's. Because we are jaded slackers such hard workers who deserve a break, my coworker Gwynn and I decided around 2:30 to leave work to go get some ice cream. The trip hit a bump fairly quickly as our dear friend Google Maps suggested we drive down a sidewalk to find our destination. Seeing how we were still law-abiding citizens at this point, we found another way to go. Parking was limited, as always in our particular part of the country, but we found a lot with a very clear sign that said "Parking after 11am: $1/hr". Internet, I promise you that's what it said.

So, we waited in line with hundreds dozens of screaming kids in private school uniforms, got our ice cream (peanut butter cookie dough, yum yum), and then headed back to the car. When we pulled up to the pay booth and hand the man our ticket he says, "three dolla". No, we were not there for three hours, or even for two hours and one minute. We were there for 35 minutes. Ordinarily I would not have argued about this unannounced price hike.

But, um, we didn't HAVE $3. Between us we were only able to scrounge up $2. Actually, Gwynn had $1.99 and I provided the last penny. Because I was only carrying about seven pennies with me. I mean, who needs cash on FREE CONE DAY? When I tried to point out to the man that what he said was contradicting the sign below him, he only repeated his mantra: "three dolla!". I was tempted to get out of my car and go pan-handling for the rest but unfortunately, I had left my permit at home.

(that was a joke)

Finally I explained that we did not have enough cash with us he told me I had to write my name and phone number on our ticket so that he wouldn't lose his job. Over $1. As I held that pen and ticket, I had a moral dilemma. Because how would he possibly know if I wrote the wrong name? But, I am proud to say that I decided to return to the straight and narrow and face the consequences of my parking theft. I wrote my REAL NAME and phone number (at work, just in case).

Today I'm not answering the phone for any numbers I don't know. Also, I'm going to the ATM. Because now I'm down to only 6 pennies and that's a lot scarier than 7 pennies.