Ooooh... Shiny....

475 watts, baby.

Pretty, isn't it?

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.

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.

Seven Years

Boy meets Girl.

(in my defense, this was a very early morning bus ride)

BTW- we were 18... had been dating approximately 1 month.

Yes, this picture was candid, and yes, I do heart the overalls!

Boy marries girl.

                                            

Seven years later...

This post is more than a little late, as I've been busier the last week than I expected. On December 21st, last Monday, Sugarbear and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary. We celebrated as we normally do, with a dinner at Johnny Carino's. (The closest of which is an hour away...boo.) Why do we go there you ask? It's not fancy, it's not romantic, it's not even that convenient... but we go there because that is where we had our rehearsal dinner for our wedding, and it has become a tradition for us.

I am so very fortunate to be married to my absolute best friend, and the longer we are married the more I realize how much of  a blessing a happy marriage truly is. It has not always been wonderful, it has not always been roses and kisses and sunshine. We are flawed. We both have to ask for forgiveness from the other on occasion. But, each year gets better and better. Each anniversary brings me a bigger appreciation for all of the things Sugarbear does for me.

Does he shower me with jewelry, roses, and romantic getaways? Not all the time, although I know he would if he could. (Except for the roses... he knows I don't like to get flowers... that I would rather receive a gift that didn't wither and die...) But he does shower me with a selfless attitude, a generous spirit, and a loving heart...not to mention a steady stream of compliments, even when I don't think I deserve them.

He has become a dependable, steady leader... and I have become a person who is willing to accept leadership. He takes care of me emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and I am so thankful that the only relationship that he places above ours is his relationship with the Lord.

From the little things like teaching me how to use the fancy tv remote, to the big things, like managing the finances, Sugarbear makes my life so much easier, so much sweeter than it would be otherwise.

He is the first person I want to spend time with. He makes the most mundane activity an adventure. He makes me laugh every day, which just might be the reason I married him... that and the guitar playing thing.

Happy Anniverary Honey!

The Twelve Days of Christmas?

You know you want to sing along...

The Twelve Days of Christmas Treatment

On the first day of treatment, my RE gave to me...
A progesterone suppository.

On the second day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the third day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the fourth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the fifth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the sixth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the seventh day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
seven sperm a'swimming
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the eighth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
eight vials of blood
seven sperm a'swimming
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the ninth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
nine nurses calling,
eight vials of blood
seven sperm a'swimming
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the tenth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
ten tiny catheters,
nine nurses calling,
eight vials of blood
seven sperm a'swimming
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the eleventh day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
eleven hormonal mood swings,
ten tiny catheters,
nine nurses calling,
eight vials of blood
seven sperm a'swimming
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

On the twelfth day of treatment, my RE gave to me,
twelve daily injections,
eleven hormonal mood swings,
ten tiny catheters,
nine nurses calling,
eight vials of blood
seven sperm a'swimming
six sticks to pee on,
Five Sonograms!
four healthy follicles,
three speculums,
two sore boobs,
and a progesterone suppository.

Merry Christmas!

Frankie the Turkey

Here is a little glimpse into the Nichols Family Funtime Thanksgiving...

Sugarbear decided that this was the year when he was going to flex his meat smoking muscles. He has been telling me for six months that he wanted to buy a smoker, and Thanksgiving seemed like the perfect opportunity. So, off he went to Home Depot a few weeks ago and came home with a shiny red smoker. The test run ham turned out perfectly, so he was sure the Thanksgiving day performance would be just as good. Sugabear was in charge of the shopping for the Thanksgiving feast, and he lovingly selected a smallish turkey and a smallish ham. He meticulously researched the best brines, and concocted the most aromatic rubs. He spent Thanksgiving Eve administering the tasty treatments to the bird he had christented Frankie, massaging and rubbing the spices. He had whole conversations that day with Frankie, reassuring him, lovingly instructing him. He got up before dawn to begin the smoking process.  And I must admit... this was the best turkey we've ever made. Thanks to Frankie.... Frankie the Turkey...

A Man and his Bird

Props also to Thomas the Ham... cause what else do you name a Thanksgiving ham?

At Least She's Thrifty...

I've already posted about the weird toy habits of my Dachshund.... her driving need to disembowel any toy she is given, her insane obsession with fetch... just to demonstrate, below is a picture of what she brought me the other day...

It is a fleece toy scrap about 2 inches long...it used to be a plush dog... and as you can see in the background, she fully expects me to throw it for her to fetch... do you have any idea how hard it is to throw a piece of fleece that small any considerable distance? It's not easy, my friends. She eventually tore it into pieces too tiny for her to even carry around... so I finally got to dispose of the poor little thing. She has been known to bring me pieces of fluff from the inside of toys to play fetch... she may need therapeutic intervention.

But on the plus side, we don't have to buy toys very often.