I Am Thankful For The Ability To Spell Thankful

Tis’ the season to reflect and give thanks.

I’ve avoided the 30 days of thanks bandwagon, because I'm a rebel.
Well, in my mind I am a leather jacket and motorcycle away from being a true rebel. 

In reality, meh, not so much.
Anywho….. somehow, I avoided droning on and on about what I am thankful for, until today.

I am thankful for the ability to spell thankful.

I am also thankful for being able to refrain from pointing out when it is spelled incorrectly, whilst others are thoughtfully posting about their thankfulness.

I am thankful the neighborhood skunk has built his den someplace other than right outside my living room windows.
Sure, it takes away the element of surprise every time we open a window; but my nose is much happier without that sort of excitement.

I am thankful for a child that loves me ‘to the Earth and back’.
Who wants to take the time to travel to the moon and back just to say ‘I love you’.
This kid is all about efficiency and I love her for it!

I am thankful for Matt Moneymaker.  Without him, the phrase  ‘It’s squatchy out there’  would never have entered my repertoire. You would be amazed how many places are squatchy!

I am thankful the sentence ‘But I made pie!’, got me through social media’s web-of-doom during the election season.

I am thankful for a husband that accepts my quirkiness without threatening to book me an extended stay in a padded room.
Wait....that actually sounds quite lovely.  Quiet, cushioned….somebody else cooks and cleans for me.  

Perhaps I rushed into being thankful about this.

I am thankful cell phone keyboards are impossibly small, and for autocorrect.
Without these challenges, I would be without daily laughs over ridiculous typos.

I also would never have thought to refer to The Hubster as The Lobster.

I am thankful I have functional OCD as opposed to the dysfunctional variety.
Excuse me while I go check that the stove is off and the toaster is unplugged, for the 5^th time this morning…….

I am thankful for earplugs.

They saved my marriage.  Really.  I am not kidding.

I am thankful I am almost done typing ‘thankful’ because it is starting to look strange.

And finally, I am thankful no matter how crazy the day has been, it always starts with Coffee O’Clock and ends with Wine O’clock.

Happy Gobble Gobble Day everyone!
Enjoy, indulge, and remember to be thankful for the little things in life, and the big and little people that make us smile.

The World's Deities Are Doing A Fertility Dance For Me And Cheering On My Ovaries. True Story.

I’ve been uncommonly irritable lately.

Now, this could very well have something to do with the fertility tests and drugs I’ve dealt with lately.  

It’s no secret, I’m trying to get my dusty old eggs to produce a Chick Pea for the Chicklet.

Or, I could be a carton a day smoking habit and a bottle of whiskey away from being the neighborhood curmudgeon.

Is it wrong that I would not mind being the latter, just to use the word curmudgeon more often?

Riding the infertility roller coaster takes a toll, even when you are logical and happy enough to know it's possible pregnancy will not happen again, and having one spectacular Chicklet is more than enough blessing even if a Chick Pea is never conceived.

Infertility is a topic women don’t discuss openly, which I have never understood.

Is it because wanting something we cannot have naturally is selfish?
Is it because admitting we are having trouble would make us any less of a woman?

Is it because our society is obsessed with perfection?

Is it because some religions do not condone anything but the most natural of conception methods?

Is it because we were raised to talk about such matters in hushed tones, behind closed doors?

I vote for all of the above.

Wanting a child even when Mother Nature is being a stingy wench, is not selfish.

Is wanting laboratory produced anesthesia during a major surgery selfish?  

You don't NEED it - just like I don't NEED a baby; but darn, it would be awfully nice to have it. 

I am thankful for what I have and treasure it with all my being.

It does not make me any less of a woman. 

I still wear my bras and leopard print shoes with pride.

It does make me less than perfect.

But if you read my blog you are well aware of my feelings about the pressed khaki wearing perfect super-moms, and I happily accept my flaws, torn cape and all.  I just wish I had known I was not of the fertile-myrtle variety.  I would have had far fewer tense moments, before I was ready for crazy little people in my life.

Do I care what other religions think of medical intervention to try to jump-start my fertility?

Not one iota.  In fact, I am fairly sure all the world’s deities are doing a fertility dance for me and cheering on my ovaries.   If you feel differently, they might punish you with a severe case of indigestion.  Yeah, that’s right, it might not have been a bad batch of seafood…..Hey, you have your stories, and I have mine.

I do confess I suffer from ‘this should never be spoken out loud’ syndrome. 

This is a common WASPy New England thing, where we rarely discuss our shortcomings in public.  At least never in anything above a hushed whisper, to the very closest of friends and family.

Hush now.....

So here it is, my new battle cry ‘infertility sucks!’.

I think it is a topic that should be discussed more openly, with less shame.

I think women (and hey, men too, because you know, it’s not always the lady parts that are having problems), should bond together and support each other.

Did anyone else just get a visual of people stuck together with super glue, in supportive positions?  No?  Just me?

Let's take the stigma off infertility!  It should be a far less taboo subject.

And I might just be the crazy neighborhood curmudgeon to speak out and get the proverbial ball rolling……yes, yes I am…..

* Before the positivity brigade disperses to try to talk me off the ledge, please note I have heard pretty much every well-meaning ‘chin up buckaroo’ type response.  Although I appreciate the words of wisdom, after hearing them a few too many times, they are the infertility equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.

I also am well aware wanting another child at my ‘advanced age’ is crazy.

But aren’t all parents crazy?  Who would willingly welcome a small crazy person who will scream all night, throw up and pee on you, and suck money out of your bank account like a starved tape worm, into your home?
A crazy person, and I just happen to be one.  Wearing my crazy flag proudly!