Pretty, isn't it?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Choices
Choices. Most people have choices. Chicken or Steak? Cat or Dog? Skirt or Pants? Other choices are more profound. Where should I move? What job should I accept? What house do we buy?
And then, there are the choices that aren't really choices. What do I mean? Well, the choices like "Do I treat my illness with medication or surgically?" "Do I want this divorce attorney or that one?" Choices that are about anything but choosing.
Do I want to go through this fertility treatment or not? Is this worth it? Am I making the right choice?
I don’t talk to a lot of people about our babymaking issues. In fact, I could count them on one hand, even if I’d had a horrid shop class accident leaving me with just two fingers. Well, I write about them occasionally here, but I’m talking like, actually completely talking about my “feelings” talking about it… you know, if I had feelings:-)
I go through this cycle of thought sometimes where I start to question the choice we’re making. Usually it starts during a Dr’s appointment, like when I’m in the middle of what feels like my five hundredth internal ultrasound (seriously… I’ve given the wand a name… we’re that close)… when my arms are black and blue because apparently I’m harder to get blood from than the proverbial turnip… (seriously, the nurses draw straws when I walk in the door)… or when I start thinking about money as “treatment” currency… (as in, the electric bill this month was one vial of Follistim… my student loan this month was three-fourths of one Ovidrel syringe, etc)
Then, I get angry because I tell myself that this isn’t a choice… that if this was a choice, I’d be knee-deep in dirty diapers by now. If this was a choice, I’d be choosing baby names, not naming the very cold ultrasound wand that, if it were a gentleman, would have bought me like, 100 dinners by now.
The choice that is about anything but choosing.
In reality though, I have a choice. We could do nothing. Remain childless. I’m not in the state of mind where that is even registering as remotely okay, so scratch that. We could adopt. There are multiple barriers to that for us right now… not least of which being my job that prevents us from fostering (just our preferred method of adoption… but to each his own), and a whole wide range of fears, most of which are too personal to get in to here.
So, where does that leave me at the moment?
With my feet in the stirrups, questioning my own sanity, wishing I had the guts sometimes just to get off this stupid roller coaster… but, the thought of getting off is just as scary as staying on. Nice choices.
And then, there are the choices that aren't really choices. What do I mean? Well, the choices like "Do I treat my illness with medication or surgically?" "Do I want this divorce attorney or that one?" Choices that are about anything but choosing.
Do I want to go through this fertility treatment or not? Is this worth it? Am I making the right choice?
I don’t talk to a lot of people about our babymaking issues. In fact, I could count them on one hand, even if I’d had a horrid shop class accident leaving me with just two fingers. Well, I write about them occasionally here, but I’m talking like, actually completely talking about my “feelings” talking about it… you know, if I had feelings:-)
I go through this cycle of thought sometimes where I start to question the choice we’re making. Usually it starts during a Dr’s appointment, like when I’m in the middle of what feels like my five hundredth internal ultrasound (seriously… I’ve given the wand a name… we’re that close)… when my arms are black and blue because apparently I’m harder to get blood from than the proverbial turnip… (seriously, the nurses draw straws when I walk in the door)… or when I start thinking about money as “treatment” currency… (as in, the electric bill this month was one vial of Follistim… my student loan this month was three-fourths of one Ovidrel syringe, etc)
Then, I get angry because I tell myself that this isn’t a choice… that if this was a choice, I’d be knee-deep in dirty diapers by now. If this was a choice, I’d be choosing baby names, not naming the very cold ultrasound wand that, if it were a gentleman, would have bought me like, 100 dinners by now.
The choice that is about anything but choosing.
In reality though, I have a choice. We could do nothing. Remain childless. I’m not in the state of mind where that is even registering as remotely okay, so scratch that. We could adopt. There are multiple barriers to that for us right now… not least of which being my job that prevents us from fostering (just our preferred method of adoption… but to each his own), and a whole wide range of fears, most of which are too personal to get in to here.
So, where does that leave me at the moment?
With my feet in the stirrups, questioning my own sanity, wishing I had the guts sometimes just to get off this stupid roller coaster… but, the thought of getting off is just as scary as staying on. Nice choices.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Hunting and Gathering... or Maybe Just Gathering...
The Background-
A- For Christmas, Sugarbear makes a very large batch of Chex mix... and it is exceptionally good, which is something, as I do not generally like Chex mix. But, his is good, and this year, we had bags and bags of it. We gave it out to family and friends at Christmas. As we were preparing for what turned out to be a VERY long drive to Lubbock for Christmas, we organized all of the gifts into boxes, which explains why there was a box on our dining room table that containted zip-loc bags of chex mix.
B- When it gets really cold out, we leave our dogs inside when we leave the house. They are generally good dogs, and it is never a problem. So, a few days before Christmas, we went to church and left the dogs inside, as it was cold. We came home, and nothing seemed amiss.
C- I hate, hate, hate doing laundry... specifically, I hate folding and putting away laundry. I have been known to leave a load of laundry in the recliner, waiting to be folded for a couple of days... shocking, I know.
In THIS post, I have described how Chica covers her food... and how we can hear her at it in the middle of the night, pushing around in the dish with her nose. Well, that night, we heard her doing the same pushing and arranging in the living room. Sugarbear wondered what she was rooting around with, as her food dish is in the bedroom. I didn't think anything of it until the next morning, when I found this in the living room, under the table.
Yep... it is a bag of Chex mix hidden under a towel and a tshirt. The laundry is obviously from the recliner, but it took me a minute to realize that the Chex mix had to be from the box on the dining room table. As I uncovered it, Chica ran up all happy, obviously proud that she was providing for the 'pack'...with purloined Chex mix. You can't tell, but the bag is smooshed flat, Chex crushed... apparently she pushes and covers with force. I was laughing too hard to get on to her. I pushed in the chairs on the table and went about my way.
Well, that evening, we went out, leaving the dogs inside again. We came home, nothing amiss. We go to bed, and when I get up the morning I find this in the living room floor.
Yep... it is ANOTHER purloined bag of Chex mix... this time in the middle of the floor, covered in the same towel that she had used to cover the bag the night before... (as I hate laundry, and it was still in the recliner.) Again, she was pleased as punch when I uncovered her loot, and fully expected me to praise her gathering prowess.
Upon further inspection of the table, not only were the bags of Chex mix strewn about the table, the other gifts had been gone through and inspected... assumedly by a curious little black dog.
I can just imagine the Dachshund and the cat sitting on the floor, egging Chica on, snickering. What I can't imagine is, Chica is a healthy, smart dog... she went through all the trouble of climbing up on the table, going through the boxes, and hiding her booty...she could easily have torn open the bags and had a feast... but yet, she didn't eat any of the Chex mix. Weird little dog.
A- For Christmas, Sugarbear makes a very large batch of Chex mix... and it is exceptionally good, which is something, as I do not generally like Chex mix. But, his is good, and this year, we had bags and bags of it. We gave it out to family and friends at Christmas. As we were preparing for what turned out to be a VERY long drive to Lubbock for Christmas, we organized all of the gifts into boxes, which explains why there was a box on our dining room table that containted zip-loc bags of chex mix.
B- When it gets really cold out, we leave our dogs inside when we leave the house. They are generally good dogs, and it is never a problem. So, a few days before Christmas, we went to church and left the dogs inside, as it was cold. We came home, and nothing seemed amiss.
C- I hate, hate, hate doing laundry... specifically, I hate folding and putting away laundry. I have been known to leave a load of laundry in the recliner, waiting to be folded for a couple of days... shocking, I know.
In THIS post, I have described how Chica covers her food... and how we can hear her at it in the middle of the night, pushing around in the dish with her nose. Well, that night, we heard her doing the same pushing and arranging in the living room. Sugarbear wondered what she was rooting around with, as her food dish is in the bedroom. I didn't think anything of it until the next morning, when I found this in the living room, under the table.
Yep... it is a bag of Chex mix hidden under a towel and a tshirt. The laundry is obviously from the recliner, but it took me a minute to realize that the Chex mix had to be from the box on the dining room table. As I uncovered it, Chica ran up all happy, obviously proud that she was providing for the 'pack'...with purloined Chex mix. You can't tell, but the bag is smooshed flat, Chex crushed... apparently she pushes and covers with force. I was laughing too hard to get on to her. I pushed in the chairs on the table and went about my way.
Well, that evening, we went out, leaving the dogs inside again. We came home, nothing amiss. We go to bed, and when I get up the morning I find this in the living room floor.
Yep... it is ANOTHER purloined bag of Chex mix... this time in the middle of the floor, covered in the same towel that she had used to cover the bag the night before... (as I hate laundry, and it was still in the recliner.) Again, she was pleased as punch when I uncovered her loot, and fully expected me to praise her gathering prowess.
Upon further inspection of the table, not only were the bags of Chex mix strewn about the table, the other gifts had been gone through and inspected... assumedly by a curious little black dog.
I can just imagine the Dachshund and the cat sitting on the floor, egging Chica on, snickering. What I can't imagine is, Chica is a healthy, smart dog... she went through all the trouble of climbing up on the table, going through the boxes, and hiding her booty...she could easily have torn open the bags and had a feast... but yet, she didn't eat any of the Chex mix. Weird little dog.
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