38w4d: Plans

Still here, blogosphere, and still pregnant!  I would be a liar if I said I’m not the least bit uncomfortable.  It seems this child is much more fond of breakdancing on delicate lady parts than Rex who preferred to kick ribs and things of that nature around this time.  Neither are particularly fun.

We’re much better prepared this time around than we were with Rex.  Part of that is knowing what to expect and part is not letting the fear of Bad Things take over the planning aspect of things.  We’ve bought lots of clothes. We’ve put up pictures on the wall in the nursery.  We even – gasp! – set up a registry.  We’ve scheduled parental visitations to help out with Rex and the new baby for the first few weeks and I’ve been doing a lot of cooking and freezing to have meals ready for all of us when no one feels like cooking.  In other words, we’re actually treating this an event that will happen.

As for a birth plan, well, I have none except to have a healthy baby in the least dramatic way possible.  I had the exact same plan with Rex and due to my complete lack of expectations about the whole process, I had a very positive birth experience.  Hell, I progressed from 2 to 10 cm in an hour with my epidural and pitocin while playing Cash Cab with Mr. X. That to me is just about as close to heaven as you can get.

Like last time, I have no desire to have an unmedicated, watered, or home-based birth. I don’t care about being hooked up, monitored, or stuck in the bed due to an epidural.  Whatever it takes to get this child out in one, healthy piece is what I’ll do even if that means a C-section. This isn’t about my experience – it’s about getting her here as safely as possible.

Some might say I have an inflated trust in the medical profession.  At my core, I’m a deeply practical person.  I don’t pretend to have medical knowledge beyond that which Dr. Google has shared with me.  I’d like to think that I have picked doctors who share my basic practical philosophy and won’t bullshit me about my options.  I trust their knowledge and experience and  expect them to trust that I have am making informed decisions about my care.  It also helps that I am not prone to high risk complications which necessarily escalate possible intervention nor am I adamantly against medical intervention.

Whatever the case may be, this is perhaps the only area of my life that I am willing, even happy, to cede control to someone else to ensure the best possible outcome. Just as long as I get my epidural, we will all get along just fine.

31w4d: Getting There

Good Lord, where has the time gone?  I’m already in the third trimester – three weeks into the third trimester to be exact.  This also means that we’re in single digits for weeks left.  November still seems so far away but it’s approaching really fast.  That’s good news for the election since we’ll finally be over that, but it’s bad news for our baby preparedness!

But, there has been some progress.  Baby Girl’s room has been painted a lovely shade of yellow (Honey Pot to be exact), we’ve ordered the crib, the car seat has already arrived and we went baby girl clothes shopping.  With Rex, I had to be practically dragged to the baby clothes section and even then refused to get more than a few things since even I in my denial that we would take home a living child understood that on the off chance that we did, he would need to be clothed.  This time was much easier and much more calculated. We knew what we needed and what sizes would probably work.  And, holy crap, little girl clothes are so freaking adorable.  I did draw the line at animal print, though.  I will not outfit my newborn in leopard print.  When she’s old enough to make fashion decisions, she can wear leopard, zebra and tiger print all in the same outfit, but for now, hell no.

As the belly grows (and grows and grows), sleep has become harder and harder to come by.  I’m not the only one affected either.  With Rex, I developed a terrible snoring problem that drove Mr. X to the other bedroom every night.  It’s officially started again and I frequently wake up in the middle of the night alone in the bed, except for the kitty who doesn’t mind my snoring.  There’s also the pee thing, the limited position thing, the funky dreams. But, all par for the course and totally welcome if it means baby stays put until it’s time.

I’ve also had the incredibly ironic post-partum birth control talk with my OB.  Mr. X and I are pretty convinced that this will be the last baby for us.  I know, I know, I said Rex would be our last one.  But, this time, we’re both pretty certain.  I’m 36 and being pregnant isn’t as easy as it was even at 33.  Plus, we never had designs for more than two kids anyway.  And, with this child, we finally managed to do what we set out to do in the first place – have an unassisted conception. This has also been the emotionally normal pregnancy that I didn’t have with Rex and it’s been wonderful.   In that respect, Baby Girl is our victory baby.

I made the mistake of sharing this discussion with my mother who shared it with my father who offered his very unsolicited advice that my husband should get a vasectomy.  Mr. X and I talked about getting him snipped but one of us is firmly against the idea, and it’s not who you think it would be.  No, Mr. X is perfectly fine with it. I’m the one who is adamant that he shouldn’t get a vasectomy.  There are a number of reasons why I want him to keep his fertility intact – what if I die and he marries someone else who he wants to have kids with?  What if we do want to have more kids down the line and IVF is our only way to go? It’s a whole lot easier when the sperm factory is still churning.

So, once the girl arrives, I will either have a tubal ligation if I happen to have a C-section, which is not currently planned, or I will go in later for the Essure procedure.  Full circle, we have come.

9w4d: Waiting

Vacation has numerous advantages, chief among them the ability to make time go at warp speed.  We’re already back from our cruise and the sunburn from St. Thomas is fading – although I still feel like I’m on the boat .  We had a good time. Slept in, read, took in the sights, drank fruity (non-alcoholic) beverages, and basically tuned out the real world.

Rex had a ball with the grandparents, putting them through their geriatric paces like the lively, active two year old that he is.  They also got to experience the new phenomenon of four-word sentences (“Rex car fall again”, “All done Rex bed”, etc).   Our absence has made his heart that much fonder, and vice versa.

The end of vacation also means that we’re just one week away from the next OB appointment.  Cue ominous music.  While I have no evidence that things have gone south, I had no reason to think things were going south with my first pregnancy.  Which they did.  Right about this time.  Of year and pregnancy.

The parallels of this pregnancy to my first pregnancy five years ago are eerie.

Parallel No. 1: Both times, I got pregnant in February and was due in November.

Parallel No. 2: Two days after I found out I was pregnant this time, my mom had an episode of Transient Global Amnesia which is very scary, but very short lived.   She had her first TGA right before I got pregnant five years ago.

Parallel No. 3: I ended up on a cruise in my first trimester.

Parallel No. 4: Around this time, a student shot up their college killing their classmates.

Parallel No. 5: After said cruise, we had an appointment to check on the pregnancy.

This is of course, where the story may follow the same path or verge off into a new direction.  No one knows what will happen, but it’s hard not to look to the past to predict the future.

There are quite a few differences, too, though.

My HCG was much higher this time, baby was measuring well as of the last time we got a peek and we know so much more about the whole process.  Of course, the most important difference is that this time we already have a child.  We’ve already been granted our greatest wish.

 

There Is No Try

I saw the Lady Parts Doctor in October for my annual exam.  I passed  (I studied hard) but not before she quizzed me on important topics such as how much I drink, whether I smoke and of course, my birth control habits.

She didn’t ask whether I was using any birth control.  She asked what form I was using.  I just had to roll my eyes a little at silly Lady Parts Doctor.   She just assumed that I was on birth control because otherwise, I would be poppin’ out those babies like a rabbit.  She assumed that I was normal,  bless her heart.

I was honest.  I told her I wasn’t using any birth control*. I stopped filling the birth control prescription in August.  “So, you’re trying,” she stated, not questioned.  “Not exactly,” I said.  “If something happens, great, if it doesn’t great.”

“In my book, if you aren’t preventing, you’re trying,” she countered.  Touche, Lady Parts Doctor! You got me there! Ha, ha, not really.  I’m still not trying, no matter what magical powers you think Mr. X’s sperm have or how many stories you may have heard of infertile ladies getting knocked up the old fashioned way after Baby No. 1.  (Yes, I know some of these ladies, and no, I do not think I will be one of them. And that is just fine with me.)

We’re not “trying”, Lady Parts Doctor, because for us, trying to have a baby means we go see Dr. Salsa.  We’re not seeing Dr. Salsa, adorable as his Spanish accent might have been and no matter how darned effective he was at getting me knocked up.  Just having unprotected sex with my almost 36-year old eggs and a guy with a low sperm count does not count as trying in my book.   It counts as just having fun and seeing where the chips (or babies?) fall.

So, Lady Parts Doctor, no need to give me that knowing smile when you say you’ll see me in the new year.  I’ll be seeing you in the new year… for my next annual.  Maybe then we can talk about how I define trying.

*Does male factor infertility count?

Almost. ALMOST.

I sent an email to my parents earlier this week telling them that the schedule has  been set for Rex to graduate from the infant room to the Toddler Room at day care.  Huge news, probably as big as when he started to walk, and worthy of much celebration.  In that email, I confided to them that I was sad by this development – my baby is growing up and moving on, the first of many transitions from babyhood to adult.  And, I shared with them what Mr. X and I had been saying to each other for a few months now: it almost makes me want to have another one. Almost.

Mr. X has been pretty consistent about his desire to have another child.  It’s understandable – he has a brother who was born when he was 2 1/2 so he has no memory of life without a sibling.  But, he recognizes very well that I will be the one who bears the brunt of a second child.  There’s the whole pregnancy thing, the whole post-partum thing and the loss of my income, not to mention the whole infant and toddler at the same time juggling act.  This alone has given me great pause.

That being said, I know why I have been having these twinges of desire for another baby.  It’s because I feel like I missed out on so much the first time around with Rex.  I did not enjoy pregnancy in the conventional sense – I refused to have a baby shower because I was convinced that I would have it and I would lose the baby.  The same reasoning applied to the nursery.  I grudgingly allowed to have it painted and agreed to pick out a crib telling myself the entire time that we could always get rid of it if something terrible happened.  I didn’t shop for baby clothes or let myself get too invested in the emotional side of things.  I was on edge for the entire nine months.  Looking back now, I see that I was probably depressed even then. I chalked it up at the time to wonky pregnancy hormones.

When Rex arrived, of course, it was a whole other level of depression that took me a while to get out of.  During that time, I was adamant that I would not be having another baby.   That stance has softened somewhat.  I don’t recoil from infants anymore, although I do still look at their sleep deprived parents and silently thank the heavens that I am not there anymore.

I haven’t let myself begin to think about whether another baby would be a different experience.  Mr. X and I already know that we would not use heroic measures a second time around.  We’re even still on track to donate our remaining embryo.  So, a lot of the pressure that was there with Rex’s pregnancy wouldn’t be there this time. Still, will the old fears of miscarriage and terrible things happening come back?  Would I be able to get excited and enjoy the pregnancy? Hard to say.

We’ve put the cabosh on any discussions of a second child until Rex is at least 2.  So, as long as the birth control pills hold out, that leaves me eight months of further casual contemplation and enjoyment of the deliciousness that is Rex in all of his only glory.

There’s a Person In There

For as much as Rex resembles a human, his ability to communicate in the English language has been understandably lacking.  Even I, who believes that he is only months away from SAT prep, understands that grasping the spoken word can take a while when the mouth is unused to working with the tongue to form words, let alone put those words to concepts.

Pointing

During this time, I’ve lumped Rex in the same category as our animals – an adorable enigma with whom I will never be able to have an intelligent, spoken conversation.  While the cats meowed and the dog barked (and barked, and barked) to tell us whatever they felt was necessary, Rex cried to express his thoughts (tired! hungry! pissed! pissed on! poopy!).  Even when his cries evolved into different cries for different situations, there was still that empty space of the one-sided conversations I would have with him.

Today, Mr. X brought Rex home from day care and reported that Rex can make the figure of a circle with his finger when you say “circle”.  He is also beginning to understand ‘down’.  He is trying to say the word sock when we tell him that we’re putting his socks on.  He is trying to say “ball”.  He says dada and mama.   My child is no Helen Keller, but damn do I feel like Anne Sullivan.  There’s a person in there! And he’s learning how to speak our language!

I feel such an amazing sense of accomplishment at this. It’s not that I am responsible for his development – I am one of a whole host of other people.  My sense of accomplishment is that I stuck it out through the infertility, the miscarriages, the post-partum depression, the sleep deprivation, the adorable enigma crying phase, to get to this point where I get to have the interactions that made me want to have a child in the first place.  I get to start communicating with and getting to know a new little person who is mine.

Go Have Your Fun

Travel with me, back to about the fall of 1996, but please – do not mention my eyebrows.  I had not yet discovered waxing, that depilatory wonder. That would happen the next year.  I was a junior in college having a phone conversation with my dad about plans for Thanksgiving.  I told him I wasn’t coming home to the most boring place on earth Maryland for the holiday because I was going to spend it with friends nearby.  Dad, wanting to guilt me for abandoning them on that most American of holidays, responded thusly: “Well, fine. Your mother and I will go to Paris!”

Via Creative Commons by Kadodee

“Have fun,” I told him, and thought nothing more of it.  I had no desire to go to Paris in November, no more than I wanted to go Maryland in November.  November is a month best spent in the south with palm trees, ice cold Bud, and a deep fried turkey.

I learned later that my dearest dad, upon hanging up the phone after our conversation, realized that the only way to save face out of this exchange – because God forbid he not save face – was to actually go with my mother to Paris. And, so they did and they loved it, of course.  This started their annual Thanksgiving holiday jaunt to Paris which grew into annual fall and spring trips which then slid into fantasizing about purchasing real estate in Paris and living there six months out of the year after they retired.  Fate decided that at that point, they should meet another American couple in Paris who had in fact fulfilled this fantasy.  This couple enabled my parents to bring their dream to fruition by introducing them to two lovely ladies who make these kind of arrangements for Americans in Paris.  About 12 years after that phone call, my parents were the proud owners of a tiny 400 square foot apartment in Paris.

How does having an apartment on the Continent work whilst maintaining a residence in the US? It’s called The Good Daughter Service.  That first summer, they still had their home in Maryland so I just handled the mail.  They had a nice young man to take care of the house and car while they were gone.  After that first summer, though, they finally made good on their threat promise to move down South to live near yours truly and the brood. They arrived permanently in November 2009 while Rex was cooking in the oven.

While Rex was cooking when they got here, he was in his full newborn glory by the time they left for Paris that next May.  I will not sugar coat what this was like when they left: it sucked. It sucked in every way possible. Two large pillars of support that we had during those crazy infant days and maternity leave haze were gone just like that.  To top it off, I was now responsible not only for my house, cars, mail, husband, and animals, but I was also responsible for their house, cars and mail.

I really resented them leaving that year.  Not only was I getting all of this extra work, I felt like they were abandoning us.  They weren’t there to see their only grandchild grow (and grow and grow) or reach those baby milestones of sitting up and crawling.  They weren’t there to see and help me be a mom. This was that first major life event of mine that they weren’t around when I felt I needed them and it hurt.  On my darker days, I was very angry with them for leaving me knee-deep in spit-up covered clothes, binkies and their AARP newsletters to frolic in Paris.

This year hasn’t been as bad simply because we have the hang of the Rex thing, we’re all sleeping pretty regularly and I’m not dealing with PPD.  But, I still find myself getting annoyed at what I have to do for them and the New Yorkers that are threatening to take over my desk.  I find myself not wanting to give them Rex updates to punish them for choosing Paris over us.  Why should I send them pictures or videos when they can’t see the real thing because they decided to live the Gallic life? Childish, I know, but I feel it nonetheless.

To them, of course, this was and is the penultimate accomplishment of their post-working lives: they are literally living the dream.  I don’t begrudge them that for a second because I know how hard they worked for it and how much they truly love it.  And, they helped us so, so much while they were here last winter.  I remind myself of this when they tell me how tired they are from trips to other parts of France  and I feel like they expect me to sympathize with them about this awful turn of events.  Or, when we Skype with them while its evening there and they are drinking large glasses of wine while I have a large glass of toddler in my lap who is trying to break my keyboard and the wine is under lock and key for another five hours.

I also just miss them. I can’t pick up the phone and just call them, which I prefer.  The scheduled Skypes every Sunday frankly just don’t cut the mustard.  Skype may be free but the delays in audio are annoying and it’s weird having my parents’ faces looming at me from the screen.  If Rex is awake and around for the conversation, I have to keep him entertained and not breaking anything technical while also trying to have an adult conversation.  And it ends up becoming yet another task that I have to do to help facilitate their fun.

I know I can control a lot of how I see this.  I can focus on the fact that we basically have two free cars – with free gas – for the summer and an entire other house if we need it.  We’re also doing a really good thing to help those people who gave up 18 years of their life for me.  And, like everything in this world, it is not a permanent arrangement.  The next 120 days – yes, I’m counting – will pass and they will return and we’ll get some time back.  In the mean time, I think I’ll see what they left in their wine cabinet.

Blocked

Oh, y’all,I have been having epic writers’ block recently – that written form of constipation that makes you think you might have something to get out, but really, you’re just going to sit there for a while and stare blankly into space contemplating what could possibly help to move things along.  It’s the kind that makes you whine to your significant other about uncomfortable you are, how blocked you feel and wish that things would just move the hell on. Yes, I really did just compare writer’s block to constipation.  No, you can’t un-read that.

Via Creative Commons by photosteve101

I’ve had plenty of topics marinating in the noggin.  But, the process of actually forming the ideas into coherent and witty prose has become an exercise if futility.  My delete button is getting a lot more action than my return button.  Here’s a typical blogging session: good idea pops into head; witty title is prepared; blank page is stared at; first sentence is written (usually starting with the very unimaginative “I”), and promptly deleted because it is a) stupid b) really stupid or c) so stupid a first grader wouldn’t want their name on it.  Two sentences are written, then deleted.  Switch to another topic entirely and repeat.  Spend at least an hour exhausting ideas and fingers writing words that will be immediately deleted for their utter lack of value.

The thing is, I know what is holding me back.  I know it like my son’s face and like the back of my hand.

I am deeply, deply afraid of offending you, dear Reader.  What, you ask, might I have to say that would offend you?  Well, I certainly wouldn’t comment disparagingly on your choice of outfit (which is lovely by the way – very flattering and the color really suits you) or your hair style (gorgeous!).  No, I’m afraid that you’ll be really, really annoyed when I … complain.  Sweet Jesus, I want to complain. But I want to complain about trivial crap.  The minute I do thought I begin to think of those poor people in Joplin who would love to have a house let alone go through renovating the kitchen.  I think about all those fine ladies still dealing with infertility and waiting for their miracle who would love to have a cranky toddler literally trying to throw himself out of their arms while they are walking.  Or I think about people who are orphans and would love to have one more day with their parents even if it is to take care of their house and cars and mail and cable problems while they are gone for six months. Overseas. Traveling. Cavorting. Having FUN. (That’s a whole other post).

You see, life is doing its normal thing here – alternating between being breathtaking (rocking Rex to sleep tonight – if I could bottle that feeling and sell it, there would be no war) and unbelievably frustrating (the tile guys leaving chewed gum on my door jam after removing my old kitchen floor and gouging my wood floor threshold with the refrigerator. Yes, really.).  But, every time I go to write about it, I imagine you – YES YOU – sitting there with one finger on the mouse going, DELETE! DELETE! That’s it, I’m done! She is an ungrateful spoiled brat and I refuse to read another post whining about overly privileged life. Or something like that.

The thing is, 90% of the time I’m very grateful for what I have. It’s the 10% of the time when shit breaks, when Rex puts on his cranky pants and cries because I won’t let him walk on the neighbor’s yard, when I have to spend 3 hours on the freaking phone with the cable company for my parents’ account because it doesn’t work, when the plumber wants to charge me $700 to install a freaking sink and dishwasher, I just want to tell you fine people about it.  So, I’ll make you a deal: you let me complain and I promise to do it in the most humorous and fabulous way possible.  I might even take the constipation analogy off the table.  Deal? A girl’s got to have her toilet soap box you know.

Dare to Not Compare

There is another mom at Rex’s daycare who has a baby in the room next to his. She arrives with said baby around the same time that I am leaving from dropping Rex off.  Her baby can’t be more than six months old, at the most and yet the woman looks like she stepped out of a magazine.  When Rex was six months old, the bags under my eyes were entrenched, I was still wearing cotton tops because spit up washed out of those and the general public was lucky if I wore mascara, let alone full make up.

Her? Flawless face, perfect figure with a tiny waist and really high heels.  Everyday. (Although, she wears hot pink fuzzy slippers when she goes into the infant room, yet she rocks them at the same time. WTF?!)

Via Creative Commons by last-light.com

Seeing her always puts me in a bad mood.  Mind you I’ve never talked to her, I don’t know her name – hell, I don’t even know her kid’s name which at daycare is tantamount to admitting that this person is a complete stranger.  And yet, I let her make me feel like crap every single time.  I always notice how well her clothes fit (helps with that tiny waist!) and they are completely free of animal hair (dog, cat or other) and spit up stains. Her gorgeous long hair is beautifully done like she had 30 minutes just to spend on it alone whereas mine, well, I’m lucky some days to get a hot iron on the wings that stick out.

Then, there’s the shoes.  I am particularly envious because due to Gimpy Knee, high heel shoes have just been too painful to wear.  My gorgeous Coach peep toes? Sitting on the shelf.  Same for my lime green suede numbers.  Just the thought of standing in them makes my knee ache.  Yet, there are her super-trendy and super high heels sitting out in the hallway, alternating between mocking me and waiting for their mistress to return to once again elevate her above all other mortal beings.

The thing is that no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop comparing myself to her.  A little voice pops up saying, “you have a 14 month old who sleeps until 6:45am and you can’t look as good as the woman with a 6 month old who was probably up multiple times through the night? What is wrong with you woman?”  And I have no answer.  Well, no answer that doesn’t sound totally lame.  Because to me, being well put together is the hallmark of a woman who cares about herself.  She is saying, I know my worth and it is sky high, bitches!  I feel like that maybe one day out ten.  Her? She looks it ten days out of ten.

So what’s a girl to do? I see two choices: 1) I can put in that extra effort, run the lint roller over my entire closet, and gimp up my knee even more by wearing high heels or 2) I can be happy with how I look now. I know what the magazine-quiz right answer is.  We all know what it is.  Yet I’m still drawn to the answer that most women would probably choose if they were being really honest with themselves.

I present the question then to you fine people.  How have you come to accept your appearance and been comfortable even when you’re standing next to a super model? Or, did you gimp your knee up just to wear the high heels?

Planning My Parenthood

Six weeks after Rex was born, I got a prescription from my OB for birth control pills.  I asked for the prescription because I was not going to allow my husband to touch me unless I had that heddy concoction of hormones swirling around my bloodstream fearlessly defending my fort of womanhood.  I was so damn paranoid that my body, which up until very recently had refused to play along with the whole pregnancy thing, had finally gotten the message and was ready to be a baby-making factory. And I was not.

Photo Via Creative Commons M. Markus

Because for as many stories I heard before we had Rex about women getting pregnant after adopting or swimming in magical waters, I heard just as many after we had Rex of former infertiles who poo-pahd the warning to use birth control after having their babies because hellooooo, they were infertile, and then they got pregnant merely months after having their first baby.  I was in over my head with one infant and so I was not going to play the male factor infertility card for birth control. I was going to get the 100% Grade A effective birth control*.

Fast forward one year.  Rex is still a handful – why are children required to teethe at night? – but we’ve got the hang of the baby thing (just in time for the steep learning curve of the toddler thing) and we’re in a pretty good place.

And, I’ve been thinking about ditching the birth control pills.  Part of it is because I’m cheap. Part of it is that I’m tired of being the responsible one and having to remember to take a pill every night and then pick up a new pack each month.  Part of it is that I’m now 35, the age about which birth control pill commercials start writing warnings in tiny letters on the screen.  Part of it is that this particular birth control pill seems to be wanting to stretch things out longer and longer each month which is a real d(rag).

But, what about birth control? Mr. X has told me on multiple occasions that he wouldn’t mind an oops.  There is not an insignificant part of me that would be so thrilled to be able to spontaneously get pregnant. Just the two of us! No doctors! No drugs! But, what if the pregnancy worked and we actually had another child? The pregnancy lasts nine months, the parenting lasts a lifetime.  I can do another pregnancy, but another baby? That’s a totally different matter.

Via Creative Commons by IIGS

I know that while Mr. X would like another child, I would not.  So, I’m looking into other methods of birth control that don’t require much thought on either of our parts.  I’m really intrigued with Essure.  I actually saw posters for it at my OB’s office when I was visiting her pretty regularly while pregnant with Rex.  At the time, I didn’t pay much attention – birth control was so far from my mind – but once I did find out what exactly it did, I thought it was pretty interesting … and ironic.

Basically, they insert little pieces of plastic in your fallopian tubes and get the body to envelope them in scar tissue to prevent egg and sperm from meeting.  In other words, I would be getting back the blocked tubes I had before when I was diagnosed as infertile and for which I had surgery to correct. I wonder if my insurance company would be bright enough to figure out that I am asking them to pay to re-do what they paid to fix.

Essure seems like it would be ideal for me.  I would have reliable, hormone-free birth control without having something stuck in my uterus and without making Mr. X get snipped (seriously, what happened if I died and he wanted to have more children with another woman? I couldn’t cheat him out of that).  It would also allow me to still carry a child if I wanted to be a gestational surrogate (which I’ve thought about) or even through IVF again, if we decided that we had to have another one.

I haven’t made any decisions yet.  But, I really want to get off the hamster wheel of daily birth control and I don’t want to rely on Mr. X maintaining a low sperm count to keep Rex an only child.  And yet, this just seems so existentially wrong to be seeking out the very built-in birth control I worked really hard to get rid of. What to do?

*when taken properly, natch.