Who Knew Getting Pregnant Was So Difficult And Why Didn’t You Tell Me

Truth be told, I am quite upset with my baby maker these days. Why is being a woman so difficult? I spent my entire youth trying not to get pregnant, only to be on a desperate baby rampage in my thirties.  Trying to get pregnant is a sensitive subject, I get it, but I am not afraid to speak about it.

Many women keep quiet about the trials and tribulations of getting pregnant, either out of embarrassment, pride, etc, so when difficulties happen with you, YOU start to feel like the problem. Why me? What is wrong with me? How are all these b*tches around me getting pregnant? Why is MY baby maker on strike?  These are my actual thoughts right now as a sit in Starbucks next to some pregnant chick.  B*itch.

Why is hers growing and NOT mine?
Why is hers growing and NOT mine?

The whole ‘trying for a baby‘ process is like a bad dream.   Scratch that, more like a freakin’ nightmare. Each month I jump on the crazy baby train begging to be dropped off in pregnant-ville, yet the a**hole conductor has yet to let me off. So here I am almost a year later holding my first class ticket without my glass of champagne.  This first class is complete rubbish.

When we first started trying, we were told to have sex every day after my period.  Then we were told doing this would only lower sperm counts, so we need to have sex every other day instead.  Then came my thyroid problem, so I was put on medication.  Then I was told my progesterone was low, which explained why my eggs were not able to attach to the uterine wall, resulting in a miscarriage. Next my doctor suggested I quit my job, because the stress was too much. Lastly, she told me I am getting old and only have a certain amount of eggs left.  Awesome!  Defending my eggs I blurted out, But I still feel so young! Women have babies into their forties for Christ sake! I am only thirty -five, just turned thirty-five.”  My sensitive doctor replied, “But you are still thirty-five, let’s call it what it is.” She told me to get ovulation kits and try a couple more months before we had to meet again.

Not happy with your outcome Mr. Smiley!
Not happy with your outcome Mr. Smiley!

Equipped with all this information, I went to CVS to buy ovulation and pregnancy tests.  After I filed bankruptcy from my CVS bill, I downloaded the app, AESOP Fertility. This app tracks my monthly cycle.  It shows a green dot when my eggs are ready, and a red dot when I should be prepared for another month of heartache. Once my cycle starts, I have to rub progesterone cream on my hands nightly.  When the green dot finally shows, it was go time.

My husband doesn’t mind the beginning of ‘go time’, but wants to kill me by the end.  I constantly boss him around, “No, this way.  No, that way!”  After the deed I have to lay with my legs in the air and a pillow under my hips for twenty minutes.  TWENTY MINUTES.  Way to kill the fun. The worst part is when you stand up after those twenty minutes to go to the bathroom. Ladies you know what I am talking about. Vomit. 

The next few weeks are always a blur.  Any little hot flash, dizzy spell, hunger pain, twinge of the uterus I immediately think, I’m pregnant! When the time comes to take a test, it always shows negative.  From there the denial sets in.  Maybe it’s too early.  This test is wrong. I know I am pregnant! Then I take another test, negative again. I wait. A few days later the spotting starts.  Maybe the egg is implanting, I read you spot sometimes during this process. I wait.  The real bleeding starts. I then realize I am not pregnant, I just wasted all that money on those stupid pregnancy tests, and I cry.  I cry because my plan didn’t work. I cry because there is no baby. Finally, I cry because I know next month I will have to do this all over again.

Preg Test

If we don’t get pregnant soon, I have to take a pill which helps you ovulate, however increases your chances of multiples.  Great, just what I needed.  Sorry Kate, but ‘Holly Plus Eight’ doesn’t work for me. If that magic pill doesn’t work, I’ll have to start seeing a fertility specialist. Any specialist scares me.

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Everyone always says, “At least you already have your son.” Which is true, but I long for a bigger family and not getting pregnant hurts just as much, regardless of what number kid it is.  Plus, my son needs a sibling to keep him occupied while I write all these blog posts for you ladies!

Please send your good vibes and baby making mantras, as I can’t take many more months of this vicious cycle – sober, at least.

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Much Love,

Holly

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rules of ‘Engagement’ After Marriage

Our friends keep asking us to write about sex.  Okay ladies, we will take one for the team.  You’re welcome. Mom and Dad: If you are reading this, now is the time to log off. Thanks.

As wives we can all remember how we lured our husbands to love us in the first place.  All it took was one look, and they knew what time it was.  It was so easy to get them to do whatever we wanted. Okay, who are we kidding, we still use sex as a ploy to get what we want… and so do you.  (DON’T LIE!).

SEXY LOOK

Unfortunately, times have changed. Back then we had less responsibilities, less stressful jobs, hot little bodies and more time on our hands.  As that time filled up, sex became lower on the totem pole. It also became somewhat of a chore.  We know as wives we have a duty to make our men happy, but guys, help us, help you. Very simple.

Here are some helpful hints you can share with your husbands if they want to get laid more often:

  • Numero Uno: Don’t ignore us all night, without so much as a, “How was your day honey?” Then once we climb into bed think it is go time.  The only thing going around here is ME – TO SLEEP.
  • Next, help out with the chores.  Studies show, (according to Yahoo!), when men help out with chores, women feel more appreciated.  Therefore more inclined to give it up. Hey, you can’t argue with Science!
HELP US!
HELP US!
  • If it is after 9:30 pm on a weekday, forget it…. immediately. 
  • When initiating sex during the work week, romance is not necessary.  You have about ten minutes before we fall asleep,  make them count!  We are a sure thing so stop wasting time.
  • Weekend sex, the rules are different.  Romance IS necessary. If you try to cut to the chase, we will feel used and fat. (Tip: we always think we are fat no matter how skinny we are.)
  • To clarify romance: This does not mean grab our butts as we are trying to cook or brush our teeth.  This caveman act is not sexy.  Sorry to burst your bubble guys, but it doesn’t turn us on.  Romance means massages, candles, take on an extra chores, draw a bath, etc. You get the idea (hopefully).
Nothing says I love you like alcohol!
Nothing says I love you like alcohol!
  • Last but not least, insist your wife reads 50 Shades of Grey.  The writing is horrible, however the content is smokin’ hot. It will work and it does.

I hope you enjoyed our Rules of Engagement.  Now pass them along and please feel free to add your own in the comment section below.

Cheers,

Holly & Kari

 

 

 

Lesson Learned: Ask Where The Reservations Are First

Earlier this week, Kari asked me to go to dinner.  Obviously any opportunity I get to hang out with girlfriends, I jump at the chance.  The day of Kari and I’s dinner date, my husband informed me he had to work late.  I called Kari to tell her I would have Sebastian, but asked if he could join us.  She said it shouldn’t be a problem, as he is pretty well behaved.

Later that evening in route to the restaurant she looked at me and said, “You know this place is really nice, like fine dining, right? Obama supposedly frequents this place.”  My response, “You know there is a kid in my back seat, like a toddler, right?”  My anxiety escalated as she tried to convince me all would be fine. I get embarrassed really easy, especially in public.

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To save me from having a heart attack,  Kari calls the restaurant to make sure kids were allowed. The hostess, without hesitation, said it would be fine.   Once we arrive, I lean into the hostess and quietly ask, “Can you put us at a table in a dark corner, preferably away from all other living beings. Thanks.”  Kari chimes in, “We will leave if the kid gets crazy.”

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Once we were seated (away from everyone else), I immediately pulled out my iPhone so the kid could watch Mickey. Phew that bought us about twenty minutes. The hostess then came over with a placemat and some crayons. Let’s be honest, she probably had to run down the street to the Cheesecake Factory to get those damn crayons, because I know kids rarely come here. The cheapest bottle of wine was $70! We made it through the salad course and much to our surprise, Sebe was a complete angel.  In fact, he was drinking out of a regular water class with such sophistication, you would have thought he was a natural.

Sebetuna

Kari and I were able to actually have a conversation and enjoy a three course meal without interruption. At one point my son looked at me and said, “Momma I mind my manners.”  For that… he got Gelato and a kiss.

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Once we settled the bill, I put his token batman jacket on and he ran through the restaurant holding his cape screaming, “I am Batman!”  He even did a little twirl by the hostess stand. Luckily all the old rich people left in the restaurant thought it was cute.

When we picked up the car, he proceeded to tell the valet attendant that he was VIP. Listen kid, let’s not get too big for our britches just yet. You’re 2. 

"I am BATMAN!"
“I am BATMAN!”

 

 

The ‘Constant’ Pursuit of Happiness

I recently came to the realization that I am never satisfied.  By satisfied, I mean I am always on a quest for the next level.  This pertains to my career, my marriage, my accomplishments or just life in general. Trying to find balance in my perpetual pursuit of happiness has been difficult and exhausting.  What does “having it all” really mean? When is my “all” going to be enough?

Being a driven person is something I pride myself in, however it can also be a curse.  I often think:  Once I accomplish (insert goal) I will be happier, or I will feel more satisfied.  Only to find when I reach that goal, I immediately start looking for something else to give me further feeling of worth.  It’s only when others notice my accomplishments that I say to myself,  Holy cr*p, I can’t believe I did that either!

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Sometimes I confuse being driven with taking on way too much, and missing out on what is important today.  I’ve had this discussion with many fellow colleagues, friends and family.  All of who concur with these findings.  Is it an addiction?  An adrenaline rush, we long for?  Is it society pushing us to our limits with their American Dream mantras? When did we lose sight of today in our continuous efforts to be better, bigger, and greater tomorrow?

Where is the Dali Lama when you need him?  Does anyone have his number?

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Once you get to the top, is it worth it?  I always say, “It is much easier to get to the top, then it is to stay at the top.” Is the money worth the stress? Mo’ money, mo’ problems! Is all your success worth missing important milestones in your child’s life?  When are the opportunity costs worth the reward?   This is something I struggle with daily. I don’t want to sound ungrateful or give the impression I am not happy, because I most certainly am.  Things could always be much worse, and trust me, they have been. I just don’t want to have any qualms later in life, wishing I had taken that vacation, or regretting not spending more time with my family.

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So what now? Learn to say no? Not care about the expectation of me from others? Put me and my family first? Yes, yes and yes. This is my quest for this year, and I invite you to join me.  Time waits for no one, not even you my friend.

 

Why Do Kids Smell Like Sewage Plants?

Remember that intoxicating smell of a newborn that set your ovaries into overdrive?  Even holding a baby that isn’t yours will have your baby maker screaming for one of it’s own.  They smell of new life, hope and innocence.

I'm going to smell bad soon? Crap!
I’m going to smell bad soon? Crap!

I miss that smell. That lovely smell has turned into a smell that I like to compare to a rotten carcass.  A little harsh? No, have you smelled my son?  Next you may ask, “Do you give him a bath?” Yes, I do bathe him often.  Yes, he also brushes his teeth twice a day.

To be honest with you, I am convinced there is a secret society at his school which makes it mandatory to run around as much as possible, while trekking through sewage pools.  Every day I pick him up he is doused in sweat, has dirt under his nails, and painted arms compliments of Crayola markers.  Once we get home and remove his shoes: HOLD your noses people because your nostrils just may burn off. It’s worse than a teenaged boy’s locker room.

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Typical Recess at School Apparently

I scrub his his feet every night, why do they smell like rotten cheese and vinegar? We are going to go broke buying new shoes every few months! We have even put powder in his shoes to no avail. Once in the airport he was telling everyone at the gate, “Momma says I have stinky feet.” Not too many found it funny.  I, of course, thought it was hilarious.

feet

At one point I was afraid he might be the smelly kid at school, but not the case.  All those little petri dishes (a.k.a. his friends in class), have the same problem according to their parents.

When he is at home on the weekends with us, the smell-o-meter definitely drops significantly.  Maybe I should start sending him to school in a bubble.  Either way, I guess this is preparing me for when he is a teen and smells even worse. God help me, and my nose.

 

H.B.I.C Didn’t Come Easy

Listen up.  Becoming an HBIC did not come easy. We are all (let’s face it) HBIC’s at home, but I am referring to work. What is HBIC you ask?  Head B*tch in Charge.

Now, we spent a lot of time working toward HBIC before having kids.  Being kid-less was an advantage, as the eighty hour work weeks were quite common.  The stress levels and quick decision making actually prepared us to be moms, which let’s be honest here, is the hardest job of all.

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As our families expanded, the balancing act became more difficult.  Sacrifices are something that come along with “having it all”.  I use BIG air quotes when saying “having it all” because everyone’s ‘having it all’ has different meanings.  My meaning of ‘having it all’ is: having a loving, supportive husband; having a career path of my own which makes me feel smart and independent; and having kids that I get to spend time with.

Livin

It takes a certain drive and dedication to not only have your family to look after, but also have your work family to look after.  Everybody always wants a piece of you, and your time is limited.  A friend emailed me this week and the subject line read:   The thing about being a Director…..The body read:  When the F*CK do you have time to do YOUR work???  At the end of the day, you figure it out my friends.

This is us, except with boobs.
This is us, except with boobs.

If HBIC is something you aspire to be, here are some tips that helped us succeed:

  • Sh*t is going to be tough, get used to it. It NEVER gets easy. Consider it a challenge.
  • Be confident in your decisions, people are looking up to you.  Even if you don’t know what the hell is going on, pretend you do.
  • Know what you are worth.  When you know, others will know.
  • Build relationships and be respectful of peoples time.
  • Do it because you love it.  Not for the money.
  • Always do the right thing. People will have more faith in you and your decisions if you are not rotten.
  • Open your ears! Listening gets you more than talking does.
  • Know you will not be CEO making a ga-zillion dollars in a year (new grads tend to think this).
  • Never say you are too busy.  Even if you are, I guarantee someone is busier than you.
  • Don’t be a gossip pants.  Chances are you have no idea what you are talking about.
  • Network… a lot.
  • Always follow up. It shows you are on top of your sh*t.
  • Take chances.  If you are passionate about what you do, others will be passionate too.

There you have it.  Now let’s go out and rule the world!

 “An effective leader does not control; she inspires and influences. As a leader I try to figure out what peoples dreams are.  In most cases the only thing holding them back is themselves.” – Candice Carpenter

Grocery Store Debacle

Dear Grocers,

Please eliminate the grocery carts with the attached dilapidated cars immediately.  Reasons to support my plea are as follows:

  • First and foremost, they are DI-SGUS-TING. When was the last time they were cleaned? NEVER?  I need medical latex gloves just to put my kid in there, all-the-while cringing at the thought of him touching the steering wheel. They are complete rubbish and make me want to vomit.
grocery car
I am a monster if I don’t get this car!
  •  There are never enough in circulation for as many kids as there are in the store.  If we pass one of the lucky few that snag one, my kid gets jealous and turns into a monster. Then he hates me.  Do you like making kids hate their parents?
  • They are impossible to turn.  I have to do an 8- point Austin Powers turn just to get to the next aisle. Then I get sympathy/ idiot looks from all the jerks without kids, or the ones that were smart enough to leave them at home.

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  • I have a huge husband and a son. They eat a lot.  How in the hell am I supposed to fit all my groceries in the cart when it is a fraction of the size of a normal cart.  My groceries always pile up, and I then look like a pig.  Thanks for promoting my self- esteem.
  • The kids never want to stay in there the whole time! They end up throwing their limbs out only to get smashed into the aisle shelves.  So much for ‘safety’!             Grocery car 2
  •  They are heavy.  For someone small like me it is very difficult to push this P.O.S with a stock pile of food, and a 30 lb kid.

In conclusion, they ruin my life. If you insist on having these stupid cars, please CLEAN them.  AND while you are at it, make them look like an Audi or a Benz, not a beat- down Flintstones lemon.

Sincerely,

Holly & Kari

Shattered Hollywood Dreams

So several months ago a work colleague convinced me to submit Sebastian’s pictures to a modeling/talent agency here in Chicago.  I admit he does take pictures well, and he is also cute in real life.

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Come on: Cute-a-rom-a!

I wasn’t really into it at first because I have zero time, and I don’t want to add lunatic stage mom to my resume. However when I started showing disinterest, she quickly told me about her friends kid in D.C., who makes a lot of money doing print work.  I put my cocktail down and said, “What is a lot?” Her answer was enough to have me completing the online form that night.

Look….that kid needs to go to college, and it ain’t gettin’ any cheaper! (Yes, sometimes I like to speak like a gangster- really brings home the point).  Plus with all the food that kid eats, he needs to start building up a grocery fund. I will NOT be able to afford his appetite when he is a teen.

Mi Vida Loca
Mi Vida Loca

I get a call two weeks ago that they are interested in meeting him in person today.  AWESOME!  I was very excited and somewhat nervous.  I dress him up like an East Coast/ Martha’s Vineyard/ D-Bag, popped collar and all.  He even let me put product in his hair.

Once we arrive, the place looked pretty nice and professional.  They check us in and escort us to a waiting room with about fifteen other kids.  He was (legit) the cutest one there, just saying.  A talent agent comes in and gives a speech about how they will take our kids to the other room for a minute to snap a photo, and see if they do well with direction.  In my head I am thinking:

He’s got this in the bag.  He is an angel, always listens, AND he looks fabulous. 

As she makes her way to us, he starts yelling he wants to play Angry Birds.  I quickly pull my phone out.  I realize this is the time he usually eats at school and gets ready for his nap.  Sh*t! He better chill the F out, just for a few minutes.  Please Jesus! I start to get nervous, as he is becoming a ticking time bomb. All five of the kids before us were asked to stay.  We are next.  She approaches and asks his name.  “Sebastian.” He states with a smile.  I am starting to sweat. Next she asks him to come with her and grabs his hands.

ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.  He yells at her not to touch his gloves, tells her he is not going with her, and starts wildly kicking his legs.  You would have thought she was trying to choke him.

add arms and legs flailing
add arms and legs flailing

The record player screeches, and all eyes are on us.  Me…. MORTIFIED. There are only a few times I have requested a ‘return to sender’ on this kid, and today was one of them. (See post: He’s Not Mine for another time.)

Needless to say that b*tch told me he wasn’t ready and needed to reapply in six months.  Even though my kid was a disaster and she had every right to say that, something came over me.  I felt the need to defend and protect him. As I gathered my stuff, I looked at her and said, “You know who isn’t ready?  You!”   I grabbed my little a-hole and walked out.  I guess my his Hollywood dreams are shattered.

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Caution: Everything is Evil!

When did buying things for your kids become a lesson in chemistry? I was shopping for a big boy bed the other day and ran across an article informing me there are dangerous chemicals in the frame and paint. Awesome, just what I need to buy my baby boy. There goes his batman bed.

Sometimes I feel as a society, we are encouraged to live in fear.  Which in turn, will make us consume. From day one, you are told bottles are toxic, so you should buy BPA free.  Everything has to be organic, because there are chemicals in their food. And don’t worry, that awesome ‘it’ toy you just bought is sure to be recalled in a year, because it is deadly too.

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What do we buy for them to eat, play with and sleep on? What can they watch on TV that won’t give them ADD? 

spongey on crack

I find myself getting more and more annoyed.  I can’t only buy wooden toys because my kid loves Batman. He needs Batman in his life to prevent breakdowns.  I don’t want to be the A-Hole parent that doesn’t buy him his super hero sh*t.

No this is not his Halloween costume. He wears this frequently.
No this is not his Halloween costume. He wears this frequently.

I will be the first to admit things have changed since I was a youngster, especially in our food.  I am the soda police at work (yes that girl, but I have convinced a few to get off the juice)!  However everyday something new is on the evening news, warning of us of the ‘deadly’ side effects.  Some days, I don’t want to be a lunatic who is over protective of my son.  Some days, I just want to go to the grocery store and buy a regular piece of fruit.  Some days, I just want to go to the toy store and buy something without reading: Caution: this could kill you and your kid. I am going to have a nervous breakdown trying to keep up with all this! Can’t we just live in ignorance? Wishful thinking.

Pull Your Big Boy Pants Up

The day has arrived. My baby no longer needs his momma to wipe his booty.  I have to admit with every new milestone comes joy and sorrow.  Joy that I no longer have to buy diapers, but sorrow this is one more thing he will not need me for anymore.

My big boy is officially a certified pee-pee in the potty expert. Operation Potty worked!  I have heard of people potty training as early as 15 months.  Maybe I am just a hippy at heart, but I wanted my son to do it when he was ready, or when we were broke from buying diapers, which ever came first.  Luckily he was ready.

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This is my poo poo in the potty dance.

When you are a working mom, you need everyone in your child’s life involved in his or her growth.  We enlisted his teachers at school to ask him every hour if he had to go potty.  When he did use the potty the whole class would cheer as he made his exit.  Attention wh*re, wonder where he gets that? His teacher says he is only one of two that currently uses the potty, so that made me proud.  Also, she said he is the popular kid because he is always playing and sharing with everyone.  Sorry- had to throw that one in too. (Attention Wh*ore).

At home, he wore a potty watch.  The watch is shaped like a potty and you set a timer that goes off every hour.  When it went off, S would get very excited and announce it was potty time.  Once he finished, he wanted us to go look at it before he flushed, then would say, “Bye-bye poo-poo!” Husband and I would dance around in a way that we would be embarrassed if it wasn’t just us.

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I’m the king of the world!

The final tool in Operation Potty was going to Target and letting him pick out big boy underwear.  He, of course, chose Batman.   Once we got home he pranced around in his new undies and declared himself a big boy.  There you have it.  It truly is the little things in life that make you happy.