Billboards

One of the greatest lessons I've learned was taught to me when I was 25 years old. A co-worker said, "Have you ever noticed that most people point out their insecurities to you within the first 15 minutes of meeting them?" I started paying close attention and ... its true! A guy at my reunion greeted me with hello and the admission that he'd gained 20 pounds. A woman mentioned that her nose is too big. Another offered that her boyfriend is 12 years younger than she, and looks even younger. A friend goes on and on about a non-existent imperfection on her forehead. And the crazy thing is ... I truly hadn't noticed any of these things on my own (and I'm quite observant) - but as soon as these statements were made, those issues were on a billboard in bright lights.

This observation made me look at myself and how often I do the same. If someone compliments my outfit, do I say, "Oh thank you, but these pants are too tight - I've gained 5 lbs this month" or simply, "Thank you!" I think in the past it may have been A, but I now strive for B whenever possible.

I thought I had this approach down to a tee, but I think it deserves a second look.

Case in point: in my own mind, the approach I'm taking to my life makes perfect sense. I have not yet met the man I want to marry, I know I want children, now is the time. Done. But my inner voice has been saying, "This is the right thing to do, but other people will think its kind of freaky for a 40-year old woman to have a baby on her own, using a gestational carrier. Freaky x 2. Especially for men in my dating pool".

Have I been projecting this viewpoint and posting it on a billboard on I-95? I ask because today I was at a Memorial Day picnic at my friend's house. He has a fairly traditional story. Met a girl, fell in love, got pregnant, became engaged, got married, had a baby, bought a house, pregnant with baby #2. Okay, not exactly the order he'd planned, but damn close. Their friends and family members were at this picnic and I've met everyone multiple times over the years. I suspected they might know my story ahead of time, and they did. There were a few joking comments about how great I look for this stage of pregnancy, but other than that, no Freak Show looks. Few Freak Show questions. Only happiness and excitement for me. End of story.

And once the baby is born, my pregnancy history is last week's New York Times - no one cares. And then I'm just another single mother back in the dating scene -- only without the baggage of an Ex. No headlines here.

And so, on this Memorial Day weekend, the billboard is coming down and making room for yet another Dunkin' Donuts sign.

Hair Fit

I like to think that I'm a 'big picture' kind of gal. Don't sweat the small stuff. Life is too short. I generally buy into all of that shit.

With the notable exception of the Hair Fit.

I know that children are starving in India. That the economy has tanked. That the State of California is in such dire straits that not even The Terminator can fix it. I get it - these are real problems.

However, there are few problems that can put a serious damper on my mood like a bad hair cut. I know hair grows back. I know its not life threatening. And guess what? I still have a massive hair fit.

A hair fit can last for hours, days or even weeks, depending on severity. When I was little, it meant wearing my old little league baseball hat around the house and scowling like I'd lost my best friend. As an adult - well, it pretty much means the same thing. Gloom and doom, folks ... GLOOM AND DOOM.

Luckily, I now have a great hair stylist and the hair fit happens only every few years -- but when it hits, watch out sucka.

I bring this up because sometimes it is okay to sweat the small stuff. And because life isn't too short for a small hair fit. And I'll bet that even Obama pauses from trying to save our country from sinking into bankruptcy and getting attacked by terrorists to get seriously pissed off that his favorite show was erased from his DVR.

So today I'm giving myself permission for being pissed off that my move has once again been pushed back. That I already moved my entire kitchen and am living off of salted almonds and egg sandwiches. That the cable company inadvertently turned off my phone, cable and internet, again. That my watch battery died. And that my nose is running faster than Joe Biden's mouth.

Even the most die hard Plan B'er is allowed to be officially pissed off over the small stuff from time to time.

Beautiful kidneys.

Is that the main verse of a love song, you ask? No, but maybe it should be. It is certainly music to my ears.

We had our Level II ultrasound this week and I can't tell you how amazing it was to see the structure of the brain, the chambers of the heart, the ossification of bones, a straight and perfect spine, 4 normal limbs, beautifully placed hands and feet.

With each new 'normal' report I felt like I'd hit the jackpot. Over and over again. With so many things that can go wrong, how lucky was I to have a baby with a totally normal ultrasound? Pretty damn lucky.

I sat there in the dark next to Vanessa, with silent tears running down my cheeks. She looks really pregnant now and is feeling movement all of the time. But I'm the one whose heart is skipping a beat.

22 more weeks and counting.

Well, shit.

There was a major glitch in the finishing of my floors and the entire thing has to be redone. I won't be leaving these walls for another few weeks. Crap.

These Walls

Well, its official. Or pretty darn close to official - I'm moving next week.

I was in the shower this morning thinking about the condo I live in now. I moved here in 1995 (gasp) when I was 26 years old (gasp, again). I so clearly remember how I felt at the time --- I had been recruited for a big job at a major University in a new city in a foreign state. Everything was so fresh and big and promising and new.

I was moving from a crappy little one bedroom apartment I didn't like, in a suburb I didn't like, of a city I hated, to leave a job that really sucked. I was sooooooo thrilled to be leaving that entire scene.

This new condo was The Mecca. I had my own garage with an electric garage door opener! and a garbage disposal! and A WASHER AND DRYER!!! OMG, I was practically moving into Trump Tower.

A lot has happened between these four walls.

I moved here with my cat from college. She loved to run up and down the stairs, sit in the front window, and hang on the deck. She died five years ago. This will be the first place I've moved in the last 6 homes without her.

I stressed and cried and fretted about my new job, and my jerky new boss, for years and years in this house. And then I worked it out and this job has, truth be told, been more fruitful than I could have ever imagined.

I made some friends, changed friends, changed friends again, and finally found real friends. I held many a book club, weekend getaway, dinner party, wedding shower, and baby shower for said friends in this home. Many glasses of sangria, deep talks, hard cries, and heartfelt laughs happened here.

I dated a million guys in these 14 years - and this number is too close to the real estimate to be truly funny. Most of these guys never made it to date #2, let alone my condo, but a few of them did (several of whom shouldn't have). A lot of awkward moments, 8th-grade style make out sessions, laughs, discussions, dreams, fights and break-ups occurred here. I'm ready to leave those ghosts behind me.

And now I'm moving from The Mecca to a whole different league that I didn't even know existed. The new place has a view of the ocean, lots of light, new construction, and my thumbprint on every paint chip, light fixture and door knob. It kind of makes you wonder --- where will I move 14 years from now?

Although I'm excited for the move, a fresh start, a new chapter, I'm also just a little bit sad to leave these four walls that have treated me so well.

Party of One

There are groups for single mothers by choice, who choose (I use this term loosely) to have children on their own. There are groups of women who choose (same comment) to use gestational carriers. However, I have found that there are few women who choose to have a baby on their own and are using a gestational carrier.

And maybe thats okay. I tried to hang with the single mothers and found that some were anti-men, some gave out free and unwanted medical advice (you should try cleansing your body with a special diet for 6 months), and most were nice, but just not my crowd. I tried hanging with the other 'intended parents' and found discussions revolving around buying carriers Tiffany jewelry wasn't for me -- again, most people were nice, but just not a good fit.

I sometimes ask myself why my life story reads like an episode of Desperate Housewives. I always seem to find myself starring in unusual plot lines - what is it? Do I crave attention? Did I lack vitamin C as a child? Is it from all of that glue I sniffed in fourth grade (you have to admit, that stuff smelled great)?

I think it may be that I know what feels right, and I know what doesn't, and I'm not good at settling for the wrong thing.

The more common approach for a woman in my position -- mid-thirties, not married, wants children -- would have probably been to marry the guy I loved, but with whom I wasn't happy. We would have struggled and either been unhappy or divorced. We would have either accepted that we couldn't have children or adopted. I would have had a lot of company in this situation.

I prefer the party of one for now. I just have to believe that this road less traveled leads to a brighter future.

Mother's Day

I received a card in the mail from my gestational carrier this week welcoming me to Motherhood. We are now at 16.5 weeks - no one else in my life would have sent me a card pre-birth, knowing how evil-eye I can be about such things, but it was thoughtful coming from Vanessa.

I've tried to explain to Vanessa what this journey is like for me. Its complicated, and so unique - but this is the best I can do:

I've always known I wanted to have children -- I've known it since I was a child myself. Deciding to go it alone was difficult, but once I crossed that hurdle, I knew I'd made the right decision. When I passed 30, and then 35, I worried about the quality of my eggs; but, ironically, that wasn't my problem. My problem was my uterus and I'd likely had this problem all my life.

My doctors and I tried everything - hormones, procedures, surgeries, more hormones, more surgeries - and nothing worked. I went through IVF and froze my embryos while we continued to try to fix my uterus, to no avail.

The potential for my future children existed. On a tiny island in the frozen Arctic waters, far from home. I just needed to go and get them, to bring them home, let them start a life. But my boat had a huge hole in the bottom. We tried to patch it, we tried to bail water out, but nothing worked. And every time we'd place a child in the boat, they would woosh out into the sea, lost forever. It was heartbreaking.

Some of my doctors didn't want to give up -- they spoke of more hormones, more surgeries, more procedures.
But I decided to get a new boat.

My daughter is now on that boat on her way to shore. I wish I could have gone to pick her up myself, but this is the safest decision for her, and for me. She is safe and warm and I'll meet her a few months later, and we'll travel the rest of the journey together.

And so, on this Mother's Day, I am a little sad that I'm not the one who can feel her kick, experience her movement, be constantly reassured that she is safe. That she is okay. But mostly I am grateful. Grateful for Vanessa, grateful for my medical team, grateful for the sheer luck that made this possible. Grateful that I have the chance to become a Mom.

That's My Girl

I was at book club on Sunday night listening to several of the women talk about their new babies. Again, my stealth pregnancy makes it interesting for me to observe life as a non-pregnant woman when I'm really expecting.

One common theme was these new mothers describing how - even now, when their children are several months old - they look at them and can't believe that these children are theirs. One woman described that she wouldn't be surprised if another mother came to the door and said she was there to pick up her child.

I would have predicted that I, especially, would feel this way, too. After all, I'm not carrying this pregnancy. I'm not the one whose body is changing. I didn't experience the morning sickness or breast tenderness, and I'm not feeling movement, wearing maternity clothes. or answering questions about my expanding belly.

But I had a moment during the CVS when the technician put the ultrasound transducer on Vanessa's abdomen, and that little baby lifted her arms and reached up toward the probe.

Something happened to me in this moment. Amazement. Recognition. Love. And I knew right then, that is my child.

This is a strange thought for a dyed in the wool pro-choice, scientifically-driven, bra-burner to have. But I had it anyway. I knew we were only 13 weeks along - but dammit, I felt love for that little mass of cells. There is no other way to describe it.

Perhaps its making lemons out of lemonade, but I've always felt there was a huge advantage to starting at rock bottom. My shitty first job made me appreciate this job. Same for my shitty first office. And my shitty first city. Same with my first one-bedroom apartment. And now I'm wondering if all of the shit I've endured through the fertility process, doing it alone, and using a gestational carrier has made me appreciate my daughter even more.

Damn, I should be in great shape when Mr. Right finally shows up.

Turning in the keys

I'm in an interesting situation. Most people don't know that I'm expecting a baby - I'm single, I'm not carrying, and I'm not showing. I've told my family and my closest friends and colleagues, but an awkward conversation to strike up with my parking lot attendant, if you know what I mean.

So, let's call this a stealth pregnancy. It may not show on the outside, but a lot of wheels are churning on the inside.

I've never not worked. I went straight from college to graduate school, to job #1, and then job #2 where I've stayed for 14 years. The longest break I've ever taken was 3 months between graduate school and job #1, when I was interviewing, moving, and setting up shop. Since then, my maximum leave from work has been 2 weeks -- and even then I check e-mail and vmail every day (by the way, I'm not bragging).

The idea of a 3 month maternity leave is therefore a novel concept for me. But its a concept I plan to embrace. I've gone through hell and back to have a baby, and I want to be the one raising and enjoying her. And she deserves to spend time with her Mom.

A friend of mine recently had a baby. Goal #1 for her was to ensure that her life changed as little as possible. Dammit, she would still work, go to the gym, play her sports, and do everything she did pre-baby. The baby could work itself into her schedule, and not vice versa.

Not me. I'm starting to opt out of things for the fall. I'm passing hard-won opportunities on to junior co-workers. I thought this would be much harder for me than it is. Its not. The career thing is kind of like Happy Hour. I've done Happy Hour. I've done it for many years, and I've done it well. I've had dollar beer nights, ladies specials, Margarita mixers, and well-drink Fridays. I've eaten many a chicken wing, jalapeno popper and greasy nachos with cheese whiz. I've flirted with 20-nothings, young professionals, 30-somethings, and guys that were too old to be at Happy Hour.

I've given up Happy Hour for lent, and I don't need to have it back. This is how I feel about my career. Been there, done the long hours and weekends, handing in the keys.

Don't get me wrong, I still need to bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan. But this diner now officially closes at 5pm --- and I'm taking time out for story hour at the library.

Off the Clock

I have an announcement to make folks --- Liv Steadman is officially off the clock! That's right, years of worrying that I would soon be 30, soon be 35, soon be 37 --- and needed to meet someone, speed date, get engaged, get married, get pregnant --- all of that is OVER.

I'm pregnant (in an offsite storage facility sort of way), moving into shit-shack turned glam=palace soon, and taking on 40 in rare style.

Does this mean that I'm not interested in men? Absolutely not. But it does mean that I no longer feel the need to weed through jdate, match and my local Starbucks 'in search of' the frog who will turn into the Prince.

I'm sick of looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right can come and find me --- I'm the girl in the plumbing aisle at Home Depot wearing jeans and an old t-shirt, spending 25 minutes crawling around on the bottom shelf ISO a flair style, satin finish, hall & closet doorknob. Is that as sexy as the 25 year old chick with three coats of make up, high heels and fake boobs at the skank bar down the street? Damn straight Buster. And guess who gives better knob?