Messy kids. I have three of them and I might know why. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not a tidy person. I don’t like to look around and see things in disarray. I don’t like an unmade bed or dirt, filth, or grime, but I’m naturally a messy person. People who are messy like to say: “I’m messy, but not dirty. There’s a difference.” I agree. There is a difference, and I’m both.
I’ve been married to my husband for 13 1/2 years and I have no idea if he’s messy or not. It’s because no matter how messy he might be, I’ll always out-mess him. He always cracks before I do. If there are dishes in the sink or a pile of newspapers on the counter, he can’t take it before I can’t take it. My “can’t take it anymore” threshold is disturbingly high for mess. So this is the example I’m setting for my triplets.
I’ve been observing them for eleven years now. What I’ve witnessed is perfectly natural. I just haven’t decided whether they’re naturally messy kids or naturally lazy kids.
What is an infertility graduate? Well, an infertility graduate is like any other graduate, the main difference being that any other graduate isn’t accustomed to wearing a gown that leaves your bare ass hanging out like an infertility graduate is.
Not everyone of course who is done with infertility and treatments considers themselves an infertility graduate. People tend to stop treatments for one of two main reasons:
Esta es mi historia (abreviada–por favor– es un blog no una telenovela)… Yo era una comediante de 38 años viviendo en Nueva York. No tenía esposo ni hijos. (De hecho la única cosa que tengo ahora que tuve entonces fue cuentas… Sí Sí eso no ha cambiado.) En Diciembre, fui a una fiesta gay para celebrar la fiesta judía de Janucá y me encontré mi esposo futuro. (¿Tú también? ¡No me digas!) El tenia exactamente 9 días más que yo y, como yo, ha tenido soltero por toda la vida sin hijos. Entonces vino la prisa. No quería tener un problema embarazarme a causa de mi edad. También, la mayoría de los parientes que quisimos invitar a la boda ya tenían 80+ años. (Podríamos haber ahorrado mucho dinero en invitaciones y comida si habíamos esperado 5 años.) Nos comprometimos en Julio, nos casamos en Octubre, y tratamos de comenzar nuestra familia diez minutos después de la ceremonia. Y un año más tarde, todavía estábamos tratando comenzar una.
Por fin, nos dimos cuenta de que probablemente necesitamos un poquito de ayuda… o quizás más que poquita.
Back-to-School time always sneaks up on me. If you’ve read previous posts, you’ll know that I’m typically between two weeks and eight years behind on everything. And this “policy” of mine, for lack of a better term, doesn’t discriminate: It applies equally to doing the laundry as it does to filling out camp registration forms to putting sunscreen on my children. But this year, turning around and finding that back-to-school time has sneaked up on me and smacked me in the ass isn’t really just because of my “policy”. Do they have year-round schools where you live? I’ve never quite gotten the hang of those. And I’d better get the hang soon… because my kids will be starting one in two weeks.
I recently talked to an ex-boyfriend who is having marital issues. (You know it sounded normal to me until I just typed it.) He and his wife had been going through infertility issues for about ten years of their fourteen year marriage. Can you even separate infertility from your marriage at that point? Or is it like you think of infertility and you think of your marriage like they’re interchangeable? All I know is that these two didn’t talk to anybody who had been through infertility or join any online groups or support groups or anything. They kind of just kept it to themselves and told a few close friends / family members who, as we’ve all witnessed first-hand, usually either say nothing or the wrong thing just because they don’t know what the hell to say. I mean, who would know what to say? Even if you’ve been through it, it’s hard to know what to say to each individual sometimes.
Last week I discussed how slow-moving we are in this house when it comes to getting things done. I mentioned that when we picked this 4+ bedroom house ten years ago, we had specifically done so, so that each of my triplets could eventually have his or her own room, I could have my own office, and that would leave a total of zero rooms available for anyone to ever even consider coming to live with us. My husband Lloyd and I don’t really care what relatives think of us as long as they don’t think of us as the couple with the spare bedroom.
When many couples buy their first house, they get something with a bedroom or two not knowing exactly how many children they might end up with and go from there. But since I had just, eight months before, given birth to triplets and told the doctor during the c-section: “So, while you’re in there, you might want to tie those up. In fact, make it a double knot just to be sure ” and then at my six week check-up: “So, how’s it going down there, Doc? Everything still tied nice and tight?”, my husband and I had a pretty good idea of the maximum number of bedrooms we were going to need for at least the next decade or two in our new North Carolina home.
To Wind Up This Month of “Let’s Here it for the Boys… & their Boys”…
In the past few weeks, I’ve had guest posts from James who told his story about going from dealing with a surly infertility doctor to having twins and Philip who’s still going through his long bout with infertility and treatments– both as the patient and as the support person to his wife. But I haven’t written anything about my husband who was there during every step of my infertility adventure. And when I say “he was there”, I don’t necessarily mean he hugged and comforted me the whole time. I mean more like… well… he didn’t move out.
A week or so ago, I whined about planning a kid’s birthday party or, more specifically, my triplets’ birthday party (parties) and how demanding they are and how they each want their own party, in its own location complete with three totally distinct cast of characters that they call “friends”. True they walk all over me but I don’t think it’s my fault. My mother used to tell me that when I was in kindergarten she asked whom I would like to invite to my birthday party to which I responded:
“Who in your class?”
“The whole class. It wouldn’t be nice to leave anybody out.”
Before you mistake this for a heartwarming story, you’d have to have known my mother and her wind-up to the story every time she retold it:
“So I, like a moron, invited twenty-three 5 year olds to my house.”