It’s why I made such a good auditor back in the day. Because I had an expectation of what I expected to see in a test, or a conversation with my client. More often than not, the answer met what I expected to hear. When it didn’t, then I worked really hard to figure out WHY it didn’t meet my expectations.

Was my expectation wrong? Or was there something else going on?

More often than not, I was off because I based my expectation on incomplete information.

But I am really, really good at judging and forming expectations.

And I think it’s the root of why I get overwhelmed, especially in the past couple of years.

Examples?

I haz dem.

1. It’s been three months and I’m still not back to a regular running schedule- I still am trying to deal with tendonitis. I can’t run without some form of discomfort and/or pain. It’s pain when I push it too much. Discomfort most other times. Either way, I have been struggling a bit.

Because it was my expectation that I’d be “over it” by now. And discomfort is bad; all of my runs should be pain free.

2. I’m bitter that we went through fertility treatments again without the outcome we hoped. Multiple times. What gave me so much comfort when I had Lucky was that I figured we had worked around the issue – it was the wonky Ute that was the cause of our failed cycles. I expected, yes, to get pregnant right away when we went back.

To have been through this whole rigamarole again with nothing, really, to show for it has shaken me indeed. It’s really hard to know what to do next, if anything.

3. Charlie Brown just took a new consulting job. He makes marginally more than what he was making before, which is good, but it’s a HUGE increase in commuting time and focus. But. It’s an investment job, honestly – better in the long term with some short term pain. It means that I have to be very, very careful with scaling back my hours so that we can ensure we pay the bills. This week has been particularly bad since Lucky is sick and it’s the first week where Charlie Brown is at the client site. And it’s only Tuesday.

Thing is, I’m tapped with our life the way it WAS before he took on more of a work commitment. I already feel like I’ve got too many plates in the air and I’m going to drop something. On the weeks where Lucky is sick, like this one, knowing that we were splitting duties made it SO much easier on me.

4. My boss sat me down before Christmas and told me I didn’t work enough hours. That when you get to the level I get to, you can’t work a 40-45 hour week; it’s more like 50-60 hours. And the irony is that he didn’t seem to be punitive in this discussion; it was more like his way of mentoring me.

Except that holy crap, I don’t HAVE THE TIME TO DEVOTE MORE OF IT TO MY JOB. Where do I take it from? My family life? My running? Sleep?

I don’t WANT to. And the stress of expecting more from myself is starting to wear on me.

I need to let it all go. And for the past few weeks, I haven’t known HOW. I’ve found myself getting more and more stressed, my anger just a little too close to the surface. I’ve been making awful choices; indulging in emotional eating – anything that for one second will make me feel just a little better.

So this morning I decided to hit the treadmill at my gym. Last time I ran was last Wednesday; a run near my house that left me limping for the day and stressed to the max about my ability to run. I took some time off in the thought that maybe I just did too much last week.

Since my marathon, I’ve felt tension in my ITB about a half mile into my run. And every time I felt that tightness, I’d spiral into worry. Is it going to erupt into pain? Why was I still in pain? Should I even be running? I’m going to ruin my legs, what a stupid idea it was to run that marathon, Serenity. Why am I pushing this, who cares that my PT says it is okay to run through injury? Just stop and rest. Clearly you’re obsessed way too much with running, there’s something wrong with you, Serenity. Why aren’t you different?

I end up more stressed at the end of a run than I was to begin with.

Which, given the above, is NOT a good thing.

So today, when I felt that tension creep into my leg?

I changed how I reacted to it.

I breathed through the discomfort, focusing on my footfalls and visualizing my IT band loosening up. And I made sure my form was correct, and relaxed, and I wasn’t trying to overcompensate in any way. And emotionally, I didn’t react. I released judgment on the tension. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad, it just WAS.

And damned if it DIDN’T loosen up. By mile 3, I felt pretty good. It was a light twinge, still there, but not enough to worry me. I was able to really zone out and find my zen, in a way that I haven’t in a LONG time.

And I still managed to find my stress again when I got to work. But it got me thinking.

What would happen if I changed how I reacted to ALL of it? If I just let go of my expectations of myself and Charlie Brown and our life together?

Maybe I’d just get on with the business of, you know, living.

And that wouldn’t be a bad thing at all.

Sometimes multiple wakings, where he’s up for a while and needs us to be with him to fall back asleep.

Especially when he’s sick. I don’t know what it IS about him, but Lucky has always seemed to be one of those kids that has had to power through a sickness. No matter how much we try to tell him that resting HELPS his body get better, he’s resisted naps and bedtime and been up overnight.

He’s just never really been a sleeper.

We visited friends in Albany over the weekend, and overnight on Saturday, Lucky was up for a very short time. But since we were in a new place, I laid down with him for a bit overnight.

And as he was trying to fall back asleep, I could hear the catch in his breathing and the stuffy in his nose. I knew he was getting sick.

Sure enough, whatever bug it was flared up yesterday afternoon, when LOOKING at him you saw sick. Flushed cheeks, glassy eyes.

And then, 10 minutes from home, he told us he wanted a bucket so he could be sick.

(As an aside? Best thing we have taught him to date. SO. MUCH. EASIER to clean up.)

We made it home, thankfully.

But he DID puke in his bucket an hour or so later.

And then posted a 101.5 degree fever.

And he spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch under a blanket.

By 6pm, you could tell he was just done, the poor kid. He kept putting his head down on the pillow & burying his face in Bear and Maisy. He looked completely miserable.

So I asked him if he wanted to go upstairs and lay down in his bed, fully expecting him to tell me no, he wanted to lay on the couch.

But damned if he didn’t say yes.

I had to carry him upstairs and help him into his pajamas; he was so wiped out.

But when I put him into bed and tucked him under the covers, he snuggled in and said:

My bed is really comfortable, Mommy. I like my blue sheets. They make me warm.

And after a story? He was asleep in minutes. At 6:30pm. And though he was up overnight, once, it was to ask me to help him find one of his stuffed animals and he went right back into bed.

I used to think, when he was a baby, that he’d NEVER sleep. I wondered if I’d be sleep deprived forever.

It’s so nice to see that he’s finally getting that sleep is a good thing. Finally.

But I’ve been thinking about this for a while.

O has been in our life long enough now that, whenever I’m posting about him, I just type out his whole name, really without thinking.

I’ve done it a couple of times here now – had to go back and edit out his name, usually HOURS after I’ve published a post.

And while I’m not too upset with you all knowing his name – after all, we DID announce it when he was born – this space is safer to me if I remain as anonymous as possible.

With J? It gets complicated to call my husband only J. Because my BFF is a J. And O has a friend J as well.

I think it’s time for new names, at least on this blog.

So. Without further ado.

O will be know now on this blog as Lucky.

Because, well, not only was he born on St. Patrick’s Day, but it does actually look like we were really, really lucky with him. I can’t imagine a more perfect name.

And J is now Charlie Brown.

If you actually know my husband in real life, it’s VERY apt for him as well.

Now it means I can post more about both of them. For now, I’ll just have to leave you with a picture of Lucky and Charlie Brown: our-making-silly-faces-while-waiting-for-our-dinner routine when we went out last week to celebrate Charlie Brown’s new job.

Happy Friday!

In our house, that usually means he’s up for the day at 4:30, in our bed, whispering is it wake up time yet?

But this morning he slept in.

So I went up to his room at 7:45 to wake him up.

And he was still in bed, motionless. Sleeping.

Except.

Bear was across the room on his rocker.

So I gather Bear up and go over to his bed, telling him that it’s time to get up.

No, Mommy! Bear needs to sit on the chair! He protests.

I ask why.

He wasn’t listening to my words! He made a BIG mess with my remote controls. So he needs to sit on a chair in time out.

Well, okay then.

So I wait a second, then ask if Bear has been in time out for long enough.

Yes, he says. But you need to talk to him.

So I patiently tell Bear that he’s in time out because he wasn’t listening to O’s words, and that he made a mess with the remote controls, and that he needs to make a better choice next time.

O says: Mommy, you forgot to tell him that you love him no matter what.

Okay.

Maybe he IS actually listening to me when I talk sometimes.

I call these my push-pull runs. And the whole time, I fight the back and forth – faster so my legs feel okay, but then slower because my lungs and heart rebel.

Within a couple of days, though, it generally resolves. I see an uptick in pace; where I can run faster more comfortably.

That’s sort of where I am right now in my life.

I’m realizing that the reason why infertility is different now is because I’m not denying my emotions about it.

Before, I spent all my energy managing things so that I didn’t really acknowledge how much it all sucked. Whenever I had moments like that, I pulled myself out of it by being all Machiavellian.

Well, if I get a baby out of this, it’ll all be worth it.

Thing is, infertility really SUCKS. It’s HARD to see pregnant women, or read the stupid FB status updates about pregnancies. Or hear people say stupid, ignorant things.

And I think I’m just starting to acknowledge it.

Except I’m not really comfortable, per se, with feelings yet. I’m just learning how to deal with them. Because, really, I’ve spent the last 35 years trying to escape them.

Hence the outbursts and anger and bitterness.

In a lot of ways, I feel like I’m an adolescent again. I really have no idea how to manage emotions. What I’ve BEEN doing – pretending that they don’t exist, talking myself out of them when they ARE there – isn’t really healthy, certainly not long term.

But man, really allowing yourself to feel, to grieve, is really hard, too.

________________________

I’m also starting to feel this way about my choice of careers. I chose this path because it was practical. And when my professor told me, early on in my accounting classes, that he had doubts about my ability to be detail-oriented enough to really succeed as an accountant, I took that as a challenge.

I’ll show HIM.

And I did. Yay. I’m a CPA now.

Problem is. Over the years, it’s becoming clear to me that he was right. It’s not that I CAN’T be detail-oriented enough to succeed at this job. I can, with varying levels of success. I’m perfectly capable of doing anything I want.

I just am starting to realize that accounting really isn’t for me.

It was a practical choice that made a lot of sense when I went for it.

And now?

I kind of hate it.

The problem is that I don’t really KNOW what I WANT to do, either. I DO have to be practical about my career options, because, well, we need money to pay our bills. And I’ve spent a shit ton of money on getting those advanced degrees so I COULD be an accountant.

Which means I really should LIVE with the consequences of those choices and just stick it out, right?

Even if it makes me miserable.

Good god, I AM like a child when it comes to being happy. Apparently along the way I decided that being an adult meant that a) Emotions have no place in decisions, and b) work a practical career and stick with it, even if it’s not ideal.

So I’m in this weird push-pull place, where this career isn’t really all that COMFORTABLE right now, but I can’t figure out what the hell I can do next that WILL be comfortable.

If it’s anything like my runs, I KNOW it’ll resolve. I just have to wait it out.

When we were trying the first time, I had time, and energy, and patience.

Before, I spent time working to be okay with the unknowingly hurtful things people said to me. I mean, ultimately their hearts were in a good place and they didn’t MEAN to hurt me.

Before, I spent time trying to educate people on infertility, how it’s a medical condition, and no amount of relaxing would miraculously help us get pregnant.

Before, if someone announced their pregnancy, I’d feel badly if I didn’t send a note in congratulations. Even if it was a short one, I’d say SOMETHING.

Before, I looked at every cycle with Hope. Maybe the NEXT cycle would work; we’d figure out exactly what we needed to do in order to get pregnant.

Before, I thought if I worked really hard at accepting the whole “people get pregnant and I don’t” thing, maybe I’d feel more DESERVING when it happened to me.

Before, I’d look at the IVF veterans on the boards and get scared that I’d lost myself to IF. They were so bitter; it really scared me that I’d end up like that.

Before, I remember telling the universe that if I could just have a baby once, that would be okay with me.

It isn’t okay.

Not by a longshot.

Somehow over the years it’s gotten harder.

Now? Not only do I not bother with a congratulations note, I immediately unsubscribe from any of their FB status updates. And I don’t feel badly about it, either. I mean, I’m glad for THEM – that they get to complete their family however they wanted to and all.

But I really don’t want to hear about it.

Now I don’t bother reacting to the hurtful, ignorant comments, like the daycare mom who told me See, I think I just WANTED it too much. As soon as I stopped really paying attention, we got pregnant! Because, really, what’s the POINT? It’s not going to change anything.

Now I can’t even think about another cycle. I want to see another doctor for another opinion, but whatthefuck is THAT going to do? We’re just going to do the same tests and be told that yeah, we don’t know why you were able to get pregnant with O, but wow, aren’t you lucky to have him.

Now I look at my gorgeous little BOY, all arms and legs and pointy elbows and energy and imagination and play, and I see how I squandered his babyhood away in a haze of sleep deprivation and overwhelming fear that I was going to fuck things up.

Now I see a pregnant belly and I don’t care how long it took her to get pregnant, but look, it’s looking pretty good that she’ll get a baby out of it so shut the fuck up about how long it took.

I am turning into those women on the IVF veterans board. Bitter. Jaded. Angry. Cynical.

Is this delayed onset infertility bitterness?

A product of too many years of treatment?

I don’t know.

All I know is that I’m angry.

Angry at myself for wanting more, when we actually DID win the lottery once. I’m terrified I’ll wake up in ten years and see that I wasted O’s preschool years on being bitter over something I never got.

I don’t want that. I want to be present in his here and now.

I’m tired of the breathless gut-punch of hearing about someone else’s pregnancy, of feeling that deep scream THAT SHOULD BE ME! inside me. I’m so afraid that I’ll have this aching void inside me for the rest of my life.

Am I going to want to punch my future daughter in law for getting pregnant easily?

I know. It’s extreme. And yes, right now everything’s raw and open. It really hurts, acutely and overwhelmingly. All I can do is ride it out, stay busy with other things, and work it out in my weekly therapy sessions.

But it’s so different now.

And I really, really wish it wasn’t.

Oh, she’s pregnant. Due in June. Didn’t you notice she was putting on weight?

I’m not prepared; I’m surprised by the news.

I can’t breathe.

But I smile anyway.

Wow, I didn’t even notice.

Pain. I want to cry. And scream, it should be me godfuckingdammit!

It’s not me.

I am not pregnant. I might never be pregnant again. No more babies for me.

All done.

This hurts so much.

It shouldn’t hurt this much. I am a mom. I have my O. I love him. My heart should be full. I am greedy; asking for more than I deserve.

When will this STOP?

But.

I was looking back at some of my old posts when O was a baby. (So MUCH I had forgotten!)

And I have to say, I am thankful that I blogged about him back in the day. And it makes me realize that I haven’t blogged about him, not really, in a while.

At least, I haven’t blogged about the good stuff. And it’s sort of overwhelming to give you EVERYTHING about him right now, so my goal is to start blogging about him more regularly.

(And yes, share pictures too.)

O has two “best friends” in his daycare class. Their parents and J and I actually call them the Three Musketeers, they’re that close knit.

One of the Three Musketeers gets picked up at 3:30 most days – since he has an older brother in first grade and so they have someone who watches the boys at home.

I made the mistake of asking O a couple of days ago if he wanted to have a playdate with the Three Musketeers at Monkey Joe’s this weekend.

So last night I get a text from one of the moms. I nearly cracked up.

So I guess when Nanny comes to pick one of the Three Musketeers up, O keeps insisting that he’s going with them and having a playdate. Today came close to child abduction. We were thinking maybe next Thursday Nanny could pick O up for a playdate. Older Brother has extended day that day, so it won’t be too much for her.

Ha. I love that my kid loves his friends, enough to climb into his best friend’s car in order to go home with him.

Course, I worry that someday one of those kids will turn on him and tell him that he doesn’t like O anymore, and he doesn’t want to play with him.

(But that’s MY baggage, right? Surely boys don’t do that to each other.)