"Family Vacation," or, "Perhaps I Should Trade Clomid for Xanax"

Bye Friends! I'm off to vacation with the in-laws, the brothers- and sisters-in-law and their big broods of kiddies, kiddies, kiddies. Nothing like a familial slap in the face to keep me in my place.

Normally I would have brought my laptop with me on this trip-o-horrors, but if you haven't heard, BumpMister managed to spill a Starbucks on its shiny white face earlier this week. So it's in the hospital for the week. Don't. Get. Me. Started.

But anyway... thanks for hanging out with me this week ladies. I'll be back on Monday to share my experiences with the big C (yes, the Clomid - I took my first little hope-in-a-pill today). Hopefully I don't experience the bitchtastic side effect that everyone keeps telling me about or I'm likely to punch an unsuspecting family member in the face the second they say, "Sooo when are yooooou twoooo going to start thinking about...."

Wish me luck!

Period. Beginning of Story.

I haven't felt this relieved to get my period since I was in high school. Back then, I'd have sex with my boyfriend with a condom while on birth control and yet I'd have a panic attack each and every month before my scheduled P date.

As with so many things - like, how big of a huge douchebag said boyfriend would become, or how the trunk of my parents' car would be the worst hiding spot for a 30 pack of Coors Light, or how many guys who are 'hot' at 18 would be bald and pot-bellied by 28 - it makes me sigh and think "If I had known then what I know now..."

But I didn't know then what I know now - thank God, or I'd have had no social life - and now I'm forced to come to the realization that getting pregnant isn't as easy as I may have believed back when I was 17 and drunk off Jagermeister. Oh well. My luck and I would have gotten knocked up in a Dave-Matthews-Band minute if I hadn't been so careful.

So last night I got my period - the first since April 22. And although it was with the help of Provera, I instantly felt a huge wave of happiness. Dr. Obigeewyan had told me that my estrogen was so low that she wasn't sure Provera would induce my period at all. STRESS! But it did, and so I feel it was the first positive step in this process.

I'll call Dr. Obi in the morning to let her know, but I believe the next step for me is a cycle of Clomid. Does anyone else have any experience with this? I think you start on Day 3 or Day 5 of your cycle, which will be tomorrow or Wednesday.

Have any insights? Share, friends, share! In six months from now, I don't want to be saying again, "If I had known then..."

Too Much of a Good Thing

I know this may come as a complete shock, friends, but sometimes - yes sometimes - your dear BumpBlogger has been known to, well, overdo it a little. So when I went to see my OBGYN after not having my period for more than three months and she asked "Has anything changed in your life? Are you exceedingly stressed? Are you working out excessively?", I smiled innocently and asked: "Can you please define exceedingly and excessively?"

Because if exceedingly stressed means that I run around all day at work like a madwoman and then come home and obsess about my empty womb, and if excessive exercise means that I work out seven days a week - sometimes (eek! I'm embarrassed!) twice a day, then yes, Dr. Obigeewyan, I am exceedingly stressed and I am working out excessively.

"Well, I have been working out a little bit more..."

"That might be it." Dr. Obigeewyan smiled and shut my file decisively, pleased that she so easily got to the root of my problem.

"But...but...working out is good for you!" I whined desperately, fidgeting in my white paper robe. I instantly felt like I was getting the brush off. "That can't be it!"

"Just try to cut it down to three days a week," she said, scribbling a prescription for Provera.

So when I left the office, of course I instantly started stressing over the fact that my excessive exercise was stopping me from getting pregnant. This was quickly following by me berating myself for getting even more exceedingly stressed, another root cause of my no-show period.

It's been a little more than two weeks since that appointment. And it's been hard to use my willpower to relax rather than to help drag my ass out of bed at 5 a.m. to go to the gym, but I'm adjusting. I have worked out three times a week - and no spinning or marathon runs, just the easy-peasy elliptical for me. I have also taken seven days worth of Provera - my last day was Tuesday. And I have yet to get my period.

So take your pick, o body o' mine. You can either be skinny and unpregnant or chubby and pregnant. Chubby and unpregnant is not an option. Stop stressin' me out.

The Best Worst Conceiver

Hi my name is BumpBlogger and I am an overachiever. Yes, for as long as I can remember, I've had a debilitating addiction to being "the best."

I blame this on my mother, who would fuel my addiction by picking me up early when I would hysterically break down after losing musical chairs at birthday parties, and on Mr. Rogers, who told me that I make each day special just by being me.

The first person who ever told me that my addiction to being the best was a problem was my sister, Fashionplate Fiona. "Umm... stop being Monica," she would snap when I would return home from college obsessing that my GPA was a 3.875 and not a 4.0 ... or years later, when I would throw my body on the floor in a heap of despair after my boss had the audacity to edit my copy ... or most recently, when I swore I had to - had to - give up step class because a woman in her 60s was better than me.

The Monica she was referring to was Monica Geller, of the Friends persuasion. An overachiever, Monica's desire to be the "winner" and the "best" completely defined her character. (See, for example, the above clip titled "The Best Bad Massage," my sister's favorite to tease me with. When Chandler tells Monica "You don't have to be the best at everything," and she exclaims "Oh my GOD! You don't know me AT ALL!", I tear up and think, "I hear ya, girlfriend.")

My sister, much more of a Rachel, never understood my motivation to live life like it was a perpetual contest. Calling me out on "being Monica" was her way of reminding me that being the best wasn't all that important if it made me look like a high-maintenance crybaby in the process.

When I recently confided in my sister about my so-far futile attempts to get pregnant - and my secret desire to have a baby before my best friend Said Friend Stacie - I braced myself for the inevitable "Monica" reference. I knew Fiona would chastise me for caring about something as petty as getting pregnant first, or for my constant obsessive thoughts about my barren future as an old, childless Auntie.

Instead, Fiona surprised me. She gave me a huge hug and whispered in my ear: "It's OK. You're the best worst conceiver I know."

Making an ASS out of U and ME

Making a wrong assumption about someone can swiftly and uncomfortably escalate into a shame spiral: You feel embarrassed when you recognize your misstep, the person you assumed to understand feels more embarrassed at your faulty belief, and in turn their embarrassment makes you feel even worse.

The thing about wrong assumptions, though, is that the shame spiral is a necessary antidote - a natural remedy that puts an end to the assumption before it can do more damage. It only works, however, if both the assumer and the assumee recognize that a wrong assumption had been made. If not, the spiral can turn into a one-sided nosedive of dispair.

Assuming I lost my mind, dear friends? Read on.

Yesterday I had the lucky double-whammy of being at a Christening for my friend Fertile Myrtle's second child when Said Friend Stacie announced her pregnancy. Immediately after the congratulations had subsided, Said Friend Stacie launched into the whole story about how surprising it all was and how she had assumed it would take a while to get pregnant but, look at that! It was soooo easy.

To which Fertile Myrtle replied: "I know! I've heard that sometimes it takes women like, months, to get pregnant. I would just die. Just. Die." She then turned to me and asked, "So when are you and BumpMister having a baby? You're still not ready for it?"

This same conversation has happened in one form or another over the past few months more times than I can count. From my mother-in-law pondering out loud if I care too much about my career to care about having kids, to my coworkers voting me most-likely-to-get-knocked-up-next in an informal office poll. It seems that everyone finds it perfectly acceptable to make overt assumptions about other people's wombs.

So what is the best response to these wrong assumptions gone awry? Snarkily reply, "I, for one, am not ready to ruin my figure."? Joke, "I'm vying for that recent opening in the Guiness Book of World Records for oldest woman to give birth."? Or scream, "I'm trying, dammit! I'm trying! I'm trying! I'm trying you stupid cow!"?

I don't know what the right answer is (OK, I do), but all I know is my answer has been working for me so far: Say nothing, sit back, smile pretty, and think to myself: "My kid is going to be cuter than yours."

The Bitch Is Back

So here's the thing: Infertility is a bitch and should be treated like one. Meaning, she should be made fun of behind her back and laughed at in her face when she tries to act all holier-than-thou. When she's being too rude for words, she should be completely ignored and not invited to the party - at which party it is our duty to have the best time ever just to show Infertility that she is not the center of our universe. And when Infertility gets almost too hard to deal with, it's perfectly acceptable to resort to hair pulling.

I've dealt with more than a fair share of bitches in my 28 years, but Infertility is a formidable foe unlike any I've ever met before. She's ironic, cunning and downright abusive. She tricks us into thinking she's our best friend every month, only to turn around and betray our confidence. And although we deep-down-hate-her-guts, we still want to be her friend.

This blog is for all women who know Infertility and are sick of being nice to her face. It's a slam-book where we can vent about her latest snarkiness and make light of her most recent attempts to cut us down. And we can do it all without feel guilty - Infertility has it coming.

Watch your back, Infertility. You're going down.

Make Mine a Provera on the Rocks

If I were to make an assumption, I would assume that the most optimal time to premiere a blog would not be 1 a.m. after three glasses of wine on a Thursday night.

However, if I were to have made that initial assumption initially, it would most likely have been before I found out my best friend was -whoops! oh dear!- pregnant after tryingbutnottrying to get knocked up for a mere 30 days.

Add this new predicament to the fact that I was prescribed the period-inducing medication Provera a slight three hours before this revelation, but nine months after stopping the Pill, and all assumptions are fairly thrown out the window.

So that is where we find ourselves, my friend. Your dear BumpBlogger, whose stomach is as flat as her wedding day three years ago when she was in the midst of an anti-food campaign in order to fit into a handkerchief-sized wedding dress, is drunk. Not on love, but on a cheap Bella Sera Pinot Grigio that she bought pre-chilled from the package store attached to the local TJ Maxx. Where she was debating between buying said friend a congratulatory baby blanket or purchasing an extremely ugly three-season-old Coach bag just to waste money to spite her husband for not getting her knocked up.

In the end, the Bella Sera was clearly the only sane option. Cheers.

P.S: Welcome to my blog. I apologize for the ridiculous self-serving babble and blame it on the ah-ah-ahah-ahah-cohol. I will be back to my normal, sober self-serving babbling tomorrow. Stick around.