Last fall, I shared the story of our embryo recipients, L&J, miscarrying at 8 weeks. The cause was later discovered as Trisomy 18, a genetic defect that's the most common cause of first-trimester miscarriage. It was only the first of three embryos we donated, so...
I have an inner voice, and she’s a Mean Girl. She tells me lies, makes claims without proof, and seems to know everything. I call her Regina George. Here’s some of the bullshit she whispers in my ear.
When another woman gives birth to a child whose genesis was you and your spouse, is the resulting child “yours”? One donor mom says yes. And I say she’s nuts.
Squeak is so skinny that despite being 20 months old, he can’t even fill out the waist of 18-month pants. This creates a dilemma, but luckily, a little DIY elbow grease solves this problem and keeps Squeak’s pants up, too!
I was so traumatized by Peanut’s chaotic visit to the feeding specialist, I had prepared myself for the worst when it was time for Squeak to go. How would the feeding specialist’s strategies work on Squeak, who was too young to be bribed with screen time and dessert? As it turns out, my little guy surprised us all.
The second of our three donated embryos was transferred in early February. After the tragic loss L&J suffered at just over 8 weeks last time, we had high hopes going into this transfer. The odds were in our—and their—favor.
You’re welcome to [try to] sell your wares to me, but remember that I’m your friend first. That relationship is at risk when all you do is talk to me like I’m a customer.
At 6:00am on February 3rd, Squeak woke up unable to breathe normally, his heart racing so fast I couldn’t even count the beats.
Our first visit with renowned pediatric feeding specialist Dr. C was an emotionally (and physically) trying day. We’re taking a completely new approach to my incredibly picky eaters.
I have picky eaters. Not your average picky eaters, either. My kids put most toddlers to shame. It’s my biggest insecurity as a parent, it stresses me out, and it sucks. I’m not taking it lying down any more. This is the beginning of our family’s journey to help my kids have a normal (hell, I’d settle for semi-normal) relationship with food.
You’re better off telling someone you enjoy kicking puppies than admitting that you let your baby cry it out. When did we start crucifying moms for putting their own sanity and well-being first once in a while?
I was busy coping with the complex feelings that accompany learning that someone is pregnant with your genetic child. Then something terrible and incredibly unfair happened.
I would never have guessed that stopping to chat with an old fella one summer day would be the beginning of a wonderful friendship. A tribute to my oldest and most uplifting friend, who taught me the value of perspective, gained after nearly a century on earth.
After nearly a decade with my husband, I realized there are several ways I’m different now as a result of his influence. Does that mean I’m losing pieces of who I “really” am in his strong personality? Or is it just evolution for the better?
Two at-home tests and a blood test confirmed the big news: L was definitely pregnant. Processing this wonderful news was the hardest part yet of donating, and my reaction to it took me by surprise.
My husband has been away overnight 102 times in the last year. As my very first overnight trip away from Squeak approaches, I’m looking forward to evening the score. But my husband is calling in reinforcements, and I’m not happy about it. AT ALL.
It all started in 1994, when I took an extremely unpleasant trip to The Sooner State, one that I’ve been trying to forget ever since.
Five days ago, my husband and I signed the final contract to donate our embryos. The contract was the last and final step in a process we started over 10 months ago; three little embryos in a freezer are officially no longer ours.
I’ve given up a lot of things since becoming a mom. Like sleep, and sanity. You know, normal stuff. But I also gave up a long list of things without a second thought. And I wasn’t sorry to see them go.
Due to kidney failure, my 94-year-old friend has less than a year to live. Even more surprising was how he reacted to the news.