Breast is Best

I rolled my eyes and groaned loudly when my eighth grade English teacher assigned Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet as part of our required reading for the term. I was only 14, at the time, and assumed the play, which was overflowing with antiquated words and phrases that I'd never heard before, would be way too hard to understand. But I was so wrong. From the first few lines I was immediately sucked into the tale of the young, star-crossed lovers. Never had I enjoyed homework as much as when I was reading Romeo and Juliet. And, as an unexpected bonus, I changed schools for my Freshman year and was thrilled to see my favorite Shakespearian masterpiece on my English syllabus for the second year in a row!

So, why am I telling you this little anecdote? What does it have to do with my baby, who is currently 14 weeks along in Lyndsay's borrowed uterus? Let me explain.

If you've ever read or seen a cinematic version of Romeo and Juliet, you know that Juliet's mother is only a mother in the biologic sense. Yes, Juliet still lives with her parents, but the person she really considers her "Mom" is the one she calls "Nurse". No, not a nurse in a doctor's office. This woman was Juliet's wet nurse from birth. I'm aware that wet nurses are scarce these days so I'll fill you in on the job of these special women. In the days of Shakespeare, and maybe even in some places now, wealthy women would give birth to a child then immediately pass her off to a woman who was hired to dote on the child until she left her parents' house and moved in with her new husband. Generally, the women who were chosen for these jobs were new mothers who had lost a baby in the days following its birth. Why is that, you ask? 

Milk.

These women were lactating but didn't have a baby to feed. And, since the wealthy, new mothers didn't want to be bothered whipping their boobs out to satisfy their infant's needs, a wet nurse was the perfect answer for them. It allowed them the glory and attention of having a new baby without any of the fuss. So, now it makes sense why Juliet was so attached to her Nurse, doesn't it? The bond between a baby and the woman who nurses her is unbreakable. 

I know that bond.

Thirteen years ago yesterday, my son, Dylan, was born. He was three weeks early and such a tiny, little thing! From the moment the stick turned blue I became adamant about breast-feeding. "Breast is Best," I'd heard over and over again from doctors and nurses and books and magazines and TV shows and random women at the grocery store who noticed my giant belly. And then, finally, he was here! Let the boobies flow! But no one could've prepared me for what this supposedly beautiful and natural process of feeding my child would actually become. 

That shit HURTS!

The two weeks following Dylan's birth consisted of sore, raw and bleeding nipples, a baby who couldn't figure out how to correctly latch on, which caused a clogged milk duct and an infection in my boob called mastitis. Symptoms of mastitis include a giant, red, swollen boob, chills, aches and a fever. Antibiotics were required. But I pressed on! 

I basically walked around all day in nothing but a nursing bra because Dylan was a "snacker." All the books and the classes and the nurses insisted on 20 minutes per breast for each feeding. Yeah, right! Within three minutes of latching on the kid would fall fast asleep mid suck. I tried to wake him up to finish but it was useless. I followed all the advice I was given. I undressed him so he'd get cold, I changed his diaper, I even flicked the bottoms of his feet! Nothing I did would wake him long enough to get back to the boob for more than another three or four minutes. I was a slave to the baby. But I pressed on! 

Finally Dylan and I started getting the hang of my milk jugs and things started to get easier. Then, one day Dylan spit up and I clearly saw blood. After rushing him to the pediatrician for a check-up that included the doctor sticking her finger up my baby's little tush to check for blood in his stool, she said, "I think the blood is coming from you." After thinking about it I realized I had been having a burning sensation in my left nipple for awhile. I scheduled an appointment for myself which revealed a second infection; this time it was in my nipple. I was instructed to feed from the right and pump from the left until the infection cleared up. But, oh, how I hated that breast-pumping machine! I hated the sound it made and how it stretched my nipples into unGodly looking utters. My unadulterated loathing of pumping forced me to ignore the doctor's words and just leave the left side out of it altogether for awhile. Ah, if I'd only known that seemingly harmless decision would lead to a left breast that was a full size smaller than the right breast for the next six years, until I couldn't stand it any longer and commissioned a plastic surgeon to even them out and put them back the way they came. But I pressed on!

Nine months later, when we were on vacation at the beach, Dylan decided he was done being a boob-man (at least for the next 13 years or so) and refused to nurse anymore. I had hoped to go a full year with him but I was ok with his decision to cut it a few months short. After all, I'd been supplementing here and there with formula since he was four months old, so it wasn't like he'd only had breast milk since birth. And, at that point, I think he was down to only a morning and a night feeding anyway.

And then, two and a half years later, out came Justin!

Justin was born the size of a three month-old and had a voracious appetite to match his size. The kid was barely 10 minutes old when he latched himself onto me with a vacuum hold and didn't let go for the next thirty minutes. And then he did the same with the other side! Even though Justin nursed like a champ right from the beginning, I still ended up with another painful bout of mastitis. But I pressed on! He was such a good eater but, for some reason, I never wanted to supplement formula with him like I'd done with Dylan. And it was a damn good thing, too! When Justin was 6 months old the pediatrician gave us the green light to try some baby yogurt. My little boy was barely two spoonfuls into the creamy snack when he started breaking out in welts all over his body. He was drooling and coughing and Benadryl did nothing to stop the reaction. As we were grabbing the keys to rush out to the hospital, Justin threw up - all over me, of course - and instantly turned back to his normal color. The welts went away and the drooling and coughing stopped. That experience led us to a full panel of testing which revealed severe allergies to milk and peanuts. And when I say an allergy to milk, I do NOT mean he was lactose intolerant. A few more bites of that yogurt and Justin may not have been peacefully sleeping upstairs as I type these words now. After hearing the results of the tests a weird feeling came over me. How did I know not to supplement Justin with formula? Every time I'd leave the house to run to the store or go to lunch with a friend, I'd leave a bottle of formula. But, every time, right before Justin's scheduled feeding, I'd call home and tell my ex or my mom or the babysitter to hold off and I'd be home to nurse him. It must've been some sort of maternal instinct. After all, regular formulas are milk-based. A bottle of formula would have killed my baby.

And now I'm expecting my third child. The thought of breastfeeding Baby A was never a real consideration since I'm not carrying her myself and wouldn't be able to produce milk without synthetic hormones that may or may not be dangerous with my history of cancer. During our initial meetings with the fertility clinic, we were asked if we wanted Lyndsay to pump and send milk. I said no, not only because pumping sucks, but also because it felt strange to me to use someone else's breast milk. Besides, I was bottle-fed with formula and so were 90% of the babies when I was born. We all turned out ok…right? 

But then, a lunch date with my friend from high school started the wheels turning in my head.

Because I haven't asked permission to use her name, I'll call my friend R. R and I had lunch the other day because she thought I could use the ear of someone who knows what it's like to have someone else carry her baby. No, R didn't use a gestational carrier, but she adopted both of her children and was involved in the pregnancies from very early on. During our conversation, R mentioned that she had fed both of her babies with donated breast milk. One for about nine months, I believe, and the other for a full year. At first I was pretty grossed out by the thought of my child ingesting milk produced by another woman's breasts. But then I remembered my baby is living and growing in another woman's uterus. Is there really a difference? "Tell me more," I prodded R, and she gave me all the information she could. 

Since that lunch last Thursday, I've been online researching donated breast milk like crazy. So many questions are rolling around my head. Is it worth the effort to find a donor? Will my baby really be healthier with breast milk? How will I feel using someone else's milk when I can't bond with my baby that way myself? 

I decided to e-mail Dr. C to ask if the hospital in Minnesota where my baby will be born has a milk bank. They do not. I've found a few online but the information is overwhelming. R used a milk sharing program rather than a bank, which definitely sounds more personal since I'd actually know who is providing my baby's nourishment. But can I trust these people? How do I know they'll eat the right foods and they won't do drugs or drink alcohol? Ah, yes. More issues the control freak can't control. 

I think I need to go back to the days of Shakespeare and find a wet nurse. Maybe Juliet can lend me hers.

Nuchal Translucency Screening

Optional testing during pregnancy is something that wasn't offered when I was pregnant with Dylan in 2000 and Justin in 2002/3. Or, maybe it was, but since I was far from "Advanced Maternal Age" at that point, it probably wouldn't have been a consideration. But things are different now. Since my eggs were harvested when I was 36, an old lady by obstetric standards, our resulting embryos had a much higher chance of chromosomal abnormalities, such as Down Syndrome. At that point, PGD testing was offered to us to check the embryos for a variety of issues, including Down Syndrome, so we agreed without hesitation. It turned out that, out of the 16 embryos that resulted after fertilization with Jimmi's sperm, only two of them appeared to have too many chromosomes and weren't considered to be "normal." The remaining 14 were left to grow for five days before being stored in the lab for our future use, but only 12 presumably healthy babies made it to the freezing stage. And the PGD also told us one more secret: we were blessed with an even split of six boys and six girls. 

It's now two and a half years later and Lyndsay is 13 weeks pregnant with our baby. During our discussions with her doctors, optional first trimester screening involving an ultrasound and a blood test to check for Down Syndrome and other problems had been mentioned, but I didn't think we needed to worry about any of that since we had already ruled those abnormalities out immediately after fertilization. But my Skype call with Dr. C last week sent up a small red flag and I felt we needed further investigation. He mentioned a type of Down Syndrome called Mosaicism that happens in the 8-cell stage, which is after the PGD would've been performed. There's only a 1 in 50,000 chance of that actually happening, but we all know how well I do with small odds. Jimmi and I decided we needed to a deeper look into the health of our growing baby, and we needed to do it before the end of the fist trimester. Two issues immediately arose after the decision to test was made. First, I needed to ask Lyndsay to rearrange her schedule and rush in for an ultrasound before the end of next week. The second issue was the blood test. Because Lyndsay had initially been pregnant with triplets that had spontaneously reduced themselves to a singleton, the blood test was out of the question. Any residual matter from the perished twins could throw all the numbers off and cause unnecessary worry. So we were left with the specialized ultrasound, called a Nuchal Translucency Screening, as our only option. The Nuchal Translucency Screening is a test that measures the amount of fluid behind the baby's neck. Too much fluid can indicate a problem. During the scan they also check the presence of the baby's nasal bone. If the bone isn't there, the baby will most likely have Down Syndrome. Generally, if either or both of these checks are off, the blood test will give the doctors additional information to confirm abnormalities. We had to hope extra hard for a normal scan because the only other test we'd be able to do in our situation would be an amniocentesis, and I would not feel comfortable having a giant needle stuck into Lyndsay's abdomen to pull out fluid from the amniotic sac. 

So the schedule juggling began and Dr. C was able to squeeze Lyndsay in on Thursday morning. He made it clear that he may not be available to Skype Jimmi and me from the appointment because of a double-booking, and that was totally understandable, but we'd be online just in case. We only had two days to wait, but I was becoming very nervous. Then Lyndsay texted me a question that, surprisingly, I hadn't even thought about until I read her words: 

"So what's the plan if the results aren't what you hope they'll be?" 

Ummm...I have no idea. What is the plan? What if our baby has Down Syndrome? What will we do?

At that exact moment the cosmic forces of the Universe stepped in and a suggested video popped up on my computer screen. "This Guy Writes a Confession Letter to His Daughter with Down Syndrome That Will Break Your Heart in 100 Ways." I had to click it. Over the next 14 minutes or so, I watched as this self-proclaimed "perfect" man with a "perfect" life told his story. After marrying the love of his life and having a "perfect" daughter, they were expecting their second child. The man was horrified to find out that his unborn daughter would have Down Syndrome. How could his child not be perfect? He described his thoughts about having a "broken baby." He urged his wife to abort but she refused. He immediately thought that people would judge him and assume he was at fault for his daughter's problems and then they'd know he wasn't perfect either. When the baby was born he took care of her, just as he'd done with his first, but he just couldn't find a way to bond with an imperfect child. And then, when she was about 6 months old, something changed. The man was kissing his baby's belly and she started giggling and pushing his face away, just like a "normal" baby would. That was the moment he fell in love with his baby girl. From that day on he made it his mission to bring awareness to Down Syndrome and his amazing little girl. He started running marathons with her in a stroller, and continued that practice for five years until he'd reached his mileage goal, then decided he didn't to "push" her anymore because she was able to stand on her own. Ah, the symbolism! After realizing the mistakes he'd made in his initial thoughts about not even wanting his baby to be born, he wrote her a confession letter explaining how sorry he was. Obviously, she hasn't read it, but maybe one day she will.

I finished watching the video, wiped away a few tears and texted Lyndsay back. "The plan isn't to abort if something is wrong. It's to know as far in advance as possible so we can do whatever we might need to do to be prepared."

Finally, Thursday was here. Jimmi and I waited by the computer, hoping Dr. C would be able to sneak into the ultrasound room with his laptop to Skype us, but I wasn't hopeful. Then the ringing from my computer announced that I was wrong and I quickly accepted the call. "Hello!" I sang out as the picture on the screen showed a technician in front of an ultrasound monitor. "Can you see?" the doctor asked as he shifted his laptop around a bit. "Yes," I answered. We could see, but because we were watching a video of a video, it wasn't totally clear. "Here's your baby," said the technician. "He's moving around a lot!" I smiled and ignored her incorrect gender pronoun. After all, it was too early to see the baby's sex in an ultrasound and she had no idea we had only transferred female embryos. We saw our little girl waving her hands and kicking her legs. "Looks like you might have a thumb-sucker here," said the tech as our baby's hand went to her mouth. "She's measuring twelve weeks and six days," she said, which meant the baby was still two days larger than her actual age, which is totally fine. "Ok, so we're gonna look at the fluid behind the baby's neck now," the tech explained and she scanned back and forth over Lyndsay's growing abdomen. After a few tries she said, "This child of yours is not behaving! In order to do this he really needs to hold still for a minute so I can get a good profile shot." Yup. She's her father's daughter! "There it is," said the tech as the baby chilled out long enough for a photo op. A few clicks of the machine and we heard, "The measurement I'm getting looks perfect." My smile masked the tears in my eyes as I waited for the next result I was waiting for. "Now we're going to look at the baby's nose," she continued. "And there's a very obvious nasal bone right there." Did I hear that correctly? "So, she's ok?" I asked hoping I wasn't mistaken. "Everything looks great right now," she confirmed and I allowed myself to breathe again.

We're 1/3 of the way to the finish line now. Keep growing, Baby A!

The Difference Between Here and There

I live in New Jersey, a state with world-renowned medical practitioners and facilities that rival even the top hospitals in our neighboring metropolis, New York City. I've always trusted my doctors and I feel they are well-trained and brilliant physicians. But the one common theme I've noticed running through the majority of the office staff and, sometimes, even the doctors themselves, is a complete lack of regard for the patient's emotional needs and an abysmal bedside manner. But, being born and raised in this area, it would concern me more if anyone went out of his or her way to be polite. Especially while doing his or her job! Yes, there are the sparse few who will actually say hello to you when you enter the waiting room. One or two might even crack a smile. But, for the most part, I've only ever been greeted by seemingly overworked and angry staff members who would probably rather be doing anything else than copying my insurance card or taking my blood pressure and writing down my list of ailments for the day.

When Lyndsay came from Minnesota to New Jersey, before the embryo transfer, for her first visit with my fertility clinic, she commented on the attitude of the doctor who had examined her. He made her feel uncomfortable and she insisted that he should not be the one to perform the transfer. When she told me who it was I thought back almost three years to my egg harvest preparation and I remembered that doctor vividly. He was a man of few words. When he entered the room, he didn't speak and he didn't smile. I don't even think he introduced himself before invading my nether region with the ultrasound dildo. But I thought to myself, if he was good at his job, his personality really didn't matter too much since I only had to see him once or twice. I can't say I've had much of a problem with the rest of my doctors. Yes, they always seem like they're in a rush to get to the next patient and I generally have to wait at least 20 minutes after my scheduled appointment time to even get called into an exam room. But I'm sure it's like that anywhere, right? Doctors are busy people! 

The real issue I have is with the office staff!

Rude, unhelpful, sarcastic, nasty, lazy. Again, there are the select few who do not fall into these categories but, for the most part, it's impossible to schedule an appointment, leave a message for a doctor or ask a simple question without it turning into a major issue of misunderstandings and double-bookings and forgetting one of the five tests I needed to have that particular day. And forget ever getting a call back from the doctor himself. If I need to ask a question, I have to call the receptionist, explain my problem in detail then wait for her to e-mail the information to the doctor. After he has a chance to review it, whenever that may be, he'll generally have his nurse call me back to answer. God forbid the answer leads to a follow-up question, I'll have to wait for the nurse to ask the doctor, the doctor to answer the nurse and the nurse to call me back again. It's like the most drawn-out and annoying game of Telephone I've ever played.

Which is why my first experience at the clinic in Minnesota was so shocking.

From our first steps into the building we were greeted with friendly smiles and helpful faces. Our appointment actually happened at our scheduled appointment time, then the next one, which was supposed to be an hour later, was pushed up to be right after the first appointment to make it more convenient for US. It had to have been a fluke. After meeting with a super-sweet nurse, the doctor came in and sat with us for about an hour, without ever giving us the impression that he needed to hurry off to another room. The doctor gave us his card with his personal e-mail address and instructed us to contact him with any questions we might have. He also mentioned using Skype for appointments Jimmi and I could not actually attend. I felt like we were in The Twilight Zone. We were probably just there on a rare day, when all the stars were in alignment. But I soon found out, after three separate visits over the last month, that the people at the clinic in Minnesota really are THAT helpful, THAT friendly and THAT concerned about how WE are treated.

And the differences in care didn't stop there.

After scheduling our big anatomy ultrasound for December, we were encouraged by the surrogacy agency to meet with the hospital social worker to discuss our unique situation so Jimmi and I would be known as our baby's parents immediately. It was also recommended that we book a tour of the Labor & Delivery Ward. I mentioned those suggestions to Lyndsay's doctor and he said, "No problem. I'll set you up with the social worker now." He entered the orders into his computer so the scheduler could take care of it on our way out, then he handed me a card with the maternity tour information on it, "Just go to this website and you can book the tour right online." We left the building with the ultrasound scheduled for December 20th, followed by an appointment with the doctor and a meeting with the social working immediately after that. It's close to impossible to book multiple appointments on the same day at home, no matter how far in advance I do it! Was it really that easy? 

Once I returned to New Jersey I didn't waste any time in e-mailing Lyndsay's doctor to ask him if we could do a "test Skype" to make sure everything worked before the next appointment. I almost fell off my chair when I received a reply from the doctor - not his nurse - barely 15 minutes later. Through direct e-mail, we were able to schedule a test call for last night at 6:30 PM. Ok, now that I had that under control I figured I'd check out the hospital tour website. Shit! They only offer tours on December 3rd and 17th. We won't be there until the night of the 18th. I wonder if they'd give us a private tour? I shook my head as I sent off the e-mail explaining our situation and requesting a special tour for just Jimmi and me during our two-day window. A reply popped into my inbox a few minutes later and I was already imagining the laughter of the person who had to answer our request, "No way! What makes you so special that we should cater to your needs?" But that's not what the response was. Not at all. "Dear Suzanne, I would be happy to give you and your husband a tour when you are here for your anatomy ultrasound..." What?! Shut UP! Who does that?! Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. I had to read the e-mail three times before I actually believed that this woman was willing to make an exception for us. The thought of moving to Minnesota to be amongst the friendly people flew through my head for a minute, but I'd never survive winter in the Midwest.

But let me go back to last night for a minute...

The test Skype call was set up for 6:30 PM. Jimmi and I were sitting in front of the computer at 6:25 when I asked with skepticism, "How late do you think he'll be? If he even remembers to call, that is." I knew I should've confirmed the appointment that day but I didn't want to be annoying. We only scheduled it a few days earlier, but there was a whole weekend in between. What if he didn't write it down? What if he forgot? What if he...

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The screen on my computer was lighting up and the clock in the corner read "6:32 PM." Ok, I will never doubt this guy again. "Hello!" smiled Dr. C when his face appeared in front of mine. After I introduced him to Jimmi, he said, "It looks like this will work well for appointments that you can't attend." We all agreed and the conversation developed from there. "I know this was briefly discussed at our last appointment, but can you tell us a little more about the first trimester screenings?" I asked. Dr. C explained, "Yes. There is a blood test used to rule out some chromosomal abnormalities, such as Down Syndrome and a few others. There's also an ultrasound that checks the nuchal translucency of the fetus. That's the amount of fluid around the baby's neck. Excess fluid could indicate a problem.  First, can you tell me where the embryos came from again?" I told the doctor that the embryos were genetically mine and Jimmi's so he asked my age. I understood his reasoning, as there's a much higher risk for Down Syndrome when the biological mother is over the age of 35. "I'm thirty-eight," I said. "But I was thirty-six when the eggs were harvested and fertilized. We did PGD on the embryos so do we really need to do extra testing?" I was referring to the the procedure performed on the embryos where a cell is removed to check for issues before they're even transferred or frozen. "Well," he answered, "that's a good start. Of course there is something called mosaic Down Syndrome, which actually occurs at the eight-cell stage. That would be after the PGD was performed. I mean, the chances of that are like one in fifty-thousand, but it does happen." Oh, please don't give me slim chances again! "Ok. I think Dr. R mentioned that the blood test might not be accurate for us because of the twins that didn't make it," I reminded him. "Yes," he agreed. "That could definitely throw off the results. But I think the nuchal translucency screening might be a good idea. It needs to be done sometime between eleven and fourteen weeks, before the baby gets too big." I could see him looking at his computer and calculating Lyndsay's current week. I decided to help him out, "She was twelve weeks yesterday," I said. "Yes," he said, "and the baby was measuring a few days over last time, so we really need to get her in here by the end of next week." Ugh. I immediately felt guilty knowing this last minute change would cause Lyndsay extra stress trying to rearrange working and childcare. "Will Lyndsay still need to come in on the twenty-fifth if she comes in next week?" I questioned. "No. If all is well, there's no reason to come back so soon." 

We finished up our call and I texted Lyndsay to let her know about the change. After a few exchanges we realized getting in this week would be slightly easier for her than next week. Based on my experiences at home, I wasn't hopeful that they'd be able to fit her in so quickly. I mean, Hell, my oncologist made me wait a month to remove my rare and aggressive cancer because he couldn't manage to squeeze me into his schedule before then. But tonight, an e-mail from Dr. C proved me wrong, once again. "We've scheduled Lyndsay for this Thursday at 8:15 AM (CST). I will do my best to be in there with the computer and Skype you, but because of the short notice, I am now double booked." Ok, that's understandable. The important thing is that he got her an appointment. The e-mail continued, "Because of the demised twins, we will not be able to do the blood work that normally goes with the screen. Thus, all we will be able to tell is whether the nuchal translucency measurement is within normal limits, but won't get a revised risk of Down Syndrome for the baby." I guess we'll just have to hope the measurement is normal so we won't need the blood test, then, right?

So, once again, here I am asking for positive vibes, good thoughts, prayers, crossed fingers or whatever it is you do when you need something to be ok. Little Baby A has come through so much already. Let's help her jump this next hurdle on move on easily to the finish line.

12 Weeks

Buzz! Buzz!

The vibrations startled me out of deep thought and I reached around my desk to find my phone. It was a text from Lyndsay.

Click!

A side profile of a surprisingly protruding, pregnant belly greeted my eyes, accompanied by, "12 wks." I stared at the photo for a second then responded happily, "Wow! There's a baby in there!" But it isn't just a baby.

It's MY baby!

I knew today would mark a huge milestone in Lyndsay's pregnancy with our baby. Hell, I'd circled the date in my calendar months ago after scouring the Internet for a week-by-week schedule of our pregnancy, based on our due date. Today, November 3rd, was a big one. 

"Congratulations!" read the words on the online tracker, "You have completed your first trimester!"

And that's what everyone thinks about 12 weeks of pregnancy, right? The first trimester is done. The riskiest part is over and it's basically safe to announce the impending birth to the world now. Well, I guess that last part is true for those who haven't been broadcasting every detail about it in a blog since before conception. But here's the thing. While endlessly over-searching pregnancy online, I stumbled upon an interesting inconsistency in trimester calculations. According to more recent data, the first trimester of pregnancy comes to an end at 13 weeks, not 12, and the second trimester officially starts at week 14. 

What?!

Yes, that's correct. Everyone assumes that, since the human gestation period is estimated at 9 months, each trimester would naturally last three months. Wrong! A full-term pregnancy is technically 40 weeks. I've never been great at math but even I can figure out that 40 divided by 3 is roughly 13 1/2, not 12. 

Shit!

So, it looks like we're still in the first trimester. Honestly, this IVF stuff makes being pregnant feel like an eternity! Knowing everything as it develops, from conception to transfer to implantation, makes the time drag on and on. At least at the beginning Lyndsay was going for blood tests and ultrasounds every few days then every week or two, so I always had something to look forward in the immediate future. But now that the pregnancy is moving along "normally" it feels like everything is at a standstill. For me, at least. Lyndsay's last appointment was on October 24th and her next one won't be until November 25th! In the meantime there's nothing that actually makes me feel like I'm having a baby other than just talking about it or looking at the ultrasound photo. And even that doesn't make it feel real yet. 

It's strange being pregnant when you're not pregnant.

With so much downtime between appointments and the fact that my own belly isn't growing (from anything other than french fries and ice cream) it's almost as if it's not really happening. Yes, my mom and I went to look at cribs and crib bedding last week. That was exciting but, after the owner of the store checked out my perfectly flat mid-section and suspiciously asked how I was feeling, I felt obligated to explain to him that I'm not the one who is carrying my baby. Don't get me wrong. The man was still very happy for me and didn't act like my situation was any different than the bulbous-bellied woman's in the glider across the store. But I still couldn't help feeling inferior as I watched her rub her distended abdomen lovingly while testing the rockers.

But I guess all I can do now is wait and live vicariously through Lyndsay. I won't be in Minnesota for her next visit with the doctor, but they'll Skype me from the appointment, which is pretty cool. The next time I'll actually see her and her baby bump in person will be for the big anatomy ultrasound in December, just a few days before Christmas.

And now this impatient, control freak has nothing left to do but to be patient and relinquish control.