Dr. D

The first day I met Dr. D he sat at his desk, facing us, drew an upside down diagram of a vagina and used the point of his pen to make spermy little dots. I pointed to it and turned to Mr. J, "In case you need a map."

"I know what I'm doing."

Dr. D laughed, "Of course you do. I haven't drawn the tubes yet."

"You're quite talented at drawing upside down vaginas."

"I've drawn thousands." He smiled as he skillfully finished his upside down reproductive system.

The first time Dr. D said the words, "You're ready," after viewing my mature egg follicles, what I'd dubbed my "egg condos," I gave him a huge hug, the paper still draped over my legs.

The first time he transferred an embryo I thanked him, tears in my eyes. I hugged him because he was the third person in our quest to have a baby. He was the one with the answers, the one with the blinking machines, anesthesiologist and unfortunately, the speculum to boot.

I was used to the tone of his voice, the voice that sang, "Hiiii, Jeanette. This is Dr. Deeeeee," when something was right. His voice changed after all those firsts. Soon it was a very clipped, "Hi, Jeanette. This is Dr. D," no hard D, no sing songiness to allay my fears. He made more of those phone calls than either of us wanted and before long I just shook his hand, mad at him for no good reason.

He called me the day after I miscarried, "I know this is hard. Please come see me." I said I would and when I did, he cleared out the office, no bright-eyed, hopeful women in the waiting room. There were only the pictures of babies with pudgy butts and mommy's hands, pictures I'd stared at wistfully when we first started the process. Pictures that suddenly made me angry when I knew my body was trying to expel the one thing I wanted most. Mr. J and I sat in his office for over an hour while we talked through our cycles, our fears and my tears. He tailored his message with facts, stats and charts for my analytical husband and handed me Kleenex and stories as I cried.

We would keep trying. He knew we could have our own baby.

So we did.

On our fifth cycle I got a call, a sing-songy Dr. D, sounding almost breathless, "We have a perfect embryo. We've never had a perfect embryo. This is good, Jeanette. We'll keep watching. I'll call you tomorrow."

By the time it made it to blastocyst his name was clipped again, "It looks good, no fragmentation, but there aren't as many cells as I would like to support the sac. We can transfer it today, but your chance of pregnancy is 10%."

I told him we'd call him back, hit End, stared at my husband and started sobbing, knowing that another miscarriage was in the immediate future.

We went through with it, 10% better than nothing.

Dr. D called me ten days later, the D rolling off his tongue as a huge smile lit my face, "Your pregnancy test came back positive! I'm so happy for you guys!"

I think I may have danced. Maybe even skipped. Mr. J picked up the phone during a meeting when I called to tell him. I already knew. I'd felt the bubbles as the embryo tried to root around, willing itself possible, burrowing into my blood supply, becoming real.

Dr. D was there when we saw the heartbeat, the flash of light and energy. He was there when we saw the baby move. He'll be there for our baby shower and pictures of our daughter will grace his inbox.

I waited until our little girl was sticky, until we knew she wasn't going anywhere before I said thank you properly. A long, winding card about our journey was not me. A fruit basket felt too contrived. What do you get a man who has given you a child? Cologne? I think not.

I walked into his office last week and caught his eye through the check in window. He was filling out charts, his scrubs on, meaning one thing. He was either harvesting eggs or implanting them, little lives in his capable hands. I let myself in, away from the lobby where families were crossing their fingers and hoping. I didn't want them to see my celebration. It might hurt too much.

Dr. D gave me a big hug and stared at my belly, "Tell me. How are you?" He wanted me to check in, emailing him with updates throughout my pregnancy, giving him glimpses.

"I'm great. It's a girl! I'm twenty weeks." I cradled my belly in my hands.

"That's so wonderful! I'm so happy for you guys!"

I showed him the one gift that I knew he'd appreciate, a cookie cake frosted in pink, "Thanks For Knocking Me Up."

He started laughing, "This has made my day. You know I love cookies." He gestured for the support nurses to grab a camera.

"I couldn't write something sappy, you know that."

"Of course not!"

We laughed, took pictures, hugged again and I promised to keep him posted as Olivia grows. He sent me an email later that evening, copies of the pictures, "Your gift was a hit in the office. Thank you so much. It made my day."

I wondered how I could make his day, a cookie cake could make his day, when he was walking from room to room, shooting miracles and hope from his fingers. Then I realized that behind each door were expectant eyes, anxious fears and hopefulness that could take a toll on a man who wanted science to err in his favor.

I realized that all the pictures of babies in his arms lining the halls were his reward. The evidence of hand holding, tearful conversations and hours squinting through microscopes and cervixes.

It has been a long journey, tough throughout, but it was a blessing to have Dr. D in our lives as we trudged along. Even when his D's were clipped, his compassion burned through the receiver, his hopefulness evident.

And his science and miracles real.

Little Livi

I'm not surprised that Little Livi is a mover and a shaker, my tummy roiling as she flips over every five minutes. It doesn't shock me that she does high kicks when people around me applaud. I hear that means she's a diva and that's ok.

It is the size of her head that has me concerned.

My mother in law tried to allay my fears as I recapped our earlier visit to the specialist.

"Her head is measuring two weeks farther along than her body. I don't know how I feel about this."

"Babies grow into their heads. Don't worry. I'm sure everything is fine."

"No, you don't understand. My vagina isn't sure how it feels about this."

Between fits of laughter she wheezed, "Your vagina will be fine too."

Mr. J was proud when the tech announced that our daughter has a very large noggin, "She takes after me. It is filled with her big brain. It is my superior genetics."

I shook my head, "No, I was born with an exceptionally large head. I didn't grow into it until I was five." I thought of the picture my aunt showed me where my cousin and I were sleeping on her living room floor, my head the size of his entire chest cavity.

Mr. J scanned the screen, "What about her feet? Can you see anything?"

The tech swiveled and moved, looking for her little phalanges while I rolled my eyes, "You know she's going to get my toes. God, I hope she gets my toes."

"Your hand feet? I can't raise a child like that."

"You have Flintstone feet. She's going to want to wear heels at some point."

I decided that when her daddy offers to shave down her long toes, a sure sign of intelligence, I will coach her to say, very sweetly, But, daddy. The boys at school like them. I can imagine him falling into himself, defeated as she skips away and he looks for the bottom of a bottle of scotch. I hope he starts muttering at some point, something about those walkin' talkin' sacks of hormones my daddy was always mentioning.

Mr. J started laughing the other night as I forced him to rub my feet. He was doing a half-assed job, staring blankly at the TV while I glared at him. He suddenly stopped.

"Ok, finished." He flung my foot toward me.

I wiggled it back into his face, "Nope. You did it for longer last time."

"Oh God. This is going to be the way it is, isn't it? I'm going to have two of you. I can just see it now. I'll rub her back, 'But, daddy. You did it for longer last time.' He sighed, a big smile on his face as he came to realize that his two girls were a lot to take on and more than he'd ever dreamed he would in this lifetime.

It feels good to think about these little things, little trivial things that make us smile until my cheeks hurt and my teeth are dry. I love complaining that she woke me up because she's there to wake me up. I love that my body, the body that has failed me time after time, is capable of giving her four heart chambers, the little brainy things the specialist looks for and I love that she floats around my insides, claiming them as hers for now.

I love that she's feisty.

I love that she gets hiccups.

I love that she is half of me and half of him and all of everything we have always wanted.

Negotiate This, Punk

Word on the street is that I've lost my filter and I may be a little snappish. I did refer to a man's business practice as douchebaggery this week.

I kind of like it.

I typically have a tendency to be the first to wave my white flag in the interest of class and tact. I will apologize first, be the bigger person, aid us to understanding and use lullaby words. I will ignore the snide tone of your voice, the manipulating comments and simply catalog them for later when I let you know that I'm on to you. Usually when someone walks away from an argument they compliment me. Something about a calm head under pressure and my sparkling wit. A friend once told me she thought maybe I was reincarnated many times over and wise beyond my years.

Fantastic, isn't that great, it has served me well in business, blah blah blah. But, man it feels good to tear into some flesh and not let go. I never knew there was a high like this, a way to finally say all those things that I would just quietly judge you about later. I get to tell you and forget you, rather than walking around with notes in the back of my head. I don't hurt feelings on purpose, but as Mr. J says, "People sometimes take advantage of you because they don't know you're on to them at first. You need to hand them their ass sooner."

I am not the one to look a man in the eye in a work situation and say, oh something like, I know you're being a tool right now and I caught the smarmy reference to my experience and your outright manipulation of the actual situation. Repeating the same sentence in three different ways doesn't break me down and sell me. I see through you, dick, and you better get your shit right before I slit your throat.

No, that is simply what I'm thinking.

What I would say comes out something like, Look, we're both professionals and I respect your business. I don't see, however, how we are going to come to an agreement until we both give a little something. It's a negotiation. It's not personal. I'll be the first to the table with X. This is what I'd like in return....

Yawn.

But, now?

It is somewhere in the middle, with a side of sass and a bit of I got you, punk.

Maybe it is just the byproduct of pregnancy, but it feels pretty fucking awesome.

Crow's Toes

I'd like to tell you that I'm embracing the crow's toe that has grown into an entire foot. I'd even like to say that the laugh lines appearing around my infectious smile are endearing. I want to tell you that I'm not shallow enough to even notice the indentions on my forehead that make me reconsider bangs.

I'd like to tell you those things.

But, I just spent over $200 on a miracle cream praying that flakes of God himself are included in the ingredients. Said purchase was shortly after my thirty-one year old friend referred to me as being in my "mid-thirties."

I didn't think I'd get here. I laughed when Amie suggested I start using eye cream in my mid-twenties. That was for old people. I was youth personified, supple skin and crinkle free smiles. I never wanted to age, but I pushed it out of my head. Then, I realized my toe was turning to a foot and decided I would age gracefully, embracing the wisdom bestowed upon me by living life gregariously, out loud, blah blah fucking blah.

Let's be honest. This wrinkle thing sucks. You lose your face, your metabolism grinds to a screeching halt and right next to you is a twenty-something with an ass that makes you want to roll into a ball and cry next to the eliptical machine that has sucked out your spirit and replaced it with self loathing, I used to be pretty. Why? Whhhhhyyyyy?

I cringe when I notice that the "stars" that marked the decade of my youth are now in their forties, fifties and rehab. This unfortunately begs the question - who the hell is this Demi Lovato that is stealing People magazine away from Matt, Ben, Jennifer and Brad?

Mags and I were waiting for an elevator last week when I caught her eyes shifting away from my forehead.

"Do you miss Botox?"

I glared at her, "Did you just look at my forehead and ask me that question?"

She giggled and stammered, "I.. um. Well, I need it too!"

We quickly discussed the Botox party we will be having once my little girl is no longer dependent upon my ability to remain poison free.

I do love the other aspects of aging. No one asks me how old I am when I take control of a meeting anymore.

No one has to worry about my heart falling out of my chest because a boy curled his lips around a lie. I knowingly smile at the twenty-something girl with the adorable ankle boots and glossed lips. She has her arms wrapped through and around the boy that will soon break her heart and leave her reeling, growing the shell casing we all hide our hearts behind by the time we're twenty-seven and "thirty and single" begins to loom.

Life feels more settled, more of what I'd spent all those years reaching for with angsty dreams and singed fingertips. It is calm, comfortable and full of all the things I molded, wrapped and finagled through sheer sweat and determination.

Some of those things are apparently the bank account that allows me to drop $200 on a cream that better be miraculous.

I will even settle for amazing.

These crows aren't migrating on their own.