A little over 2 years ago, our favorite buffalo wing place closed up shop, a far more traumatic situation than it should have been, I tell you that much. And although The Daver and I searched high and low for Replacement Buffalo Wings, nothing stood up and shouted, “Hey, fatso! Pick ME!”

Until last weekend, when we rediscovered our love for buffalo wings. Happily for my ass padding, the place is an hour away from our house, so I can’t just drop by (and by drop by, I mean move in) and have lunch there every other day. And night.

Today, much like last Saturday, we ditched the kids with their beloved grandparents and hit the road. Without the kids in the backseat, which saved my eardrums from being blasted by Alex’s indignant squawks, but ended up feeling a bit…empty, I suppose.

The wings were everything I’d imagined and perhaps more, and as we headed home on the highway, we discussed the upcoming baby more than we had in the last 17 or so weeks. While we’re both thrilled to pieces by the thought of another ickle one, we’re also both pretty shell-shocked and battle-weary from Alex’s infant-hood, and honestly I’ve been trying to just get the hell over myself, let go and let God. I’m not a pretty person when I worry, and without being able to control all of the variables in pregnancy, I worry even more fruitlessly than I should.

My pregnancy is just something I barely mention or consider myself unless I’m having an intense craving for hot ketchup (please, don’t ask) or going to the doctor. It seems easier to pretend nothing is happening, save for some bloating and kick-ass comfy pants.

Yet. And yet...

Tap, tap, tap, Baby Sausage reminded me for the first time today that although we were without my older children, we were not completely sans child. Tap, tap, tap.

The tiny fluttering reminded me to actually stop and enjoy this pregnancy, to revel in my weight gain and rib spreading, laugh off the insomnia and horrifying gas, and to pay attention to this new baby too, dammit!

So, Hello World, indeed, Baby Sausage. We just can’t wait to meet you, either.

Today at approximately 2:45 (do you like how I said “approximately” and then gave an exact time? Me either) I return to see one of my favorite doctors: my OB. He’s the one I saw when I was pregnant with Alex, the one who always “forgets” who The Daver is and asks me if it’s the same guy (he’s joking. I think), the one who always remembers that my grandfather was a doctor. He’s no-nonsense and I adore him.

He’s starkly different from my first OB, the only OB that my crappy HMO would let me see. He wasn’t a bad guy, he probably said all of 12 words to me the whole time I was pregnant with Ben, and that’s okay. I’ve never needed someone to really hold my hand or reassure me (until I spotted. Then that was ALL I needed), and it wasn’t his lack of vocal chords (I can only surmise) but the fact that he was an uber-Christian.

And me? I was unmarried. And unhappy.

I’ll say for him that he never, ever made any real remarks to me about it, save for my first appointment when he acknowledged that things must be really hard right now. And they were terribly hard.

No, what I’m still bitter about with my first OB was the dreaded forceps delivery I had. Which gave me 4th degree tearing–the highest level possible. At age 21. I’ve occasionally pestered Dave to tell me if having The Sex with me is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, and he laughs, but secretly I worry.

*sighs*

I guess I’ll never know.

What I do know is this: I’m literally kicking myself for not asking The Daver (hotdog down hallway aside) to stay home and go with me to this appointment. Not because I’m all insecure and can’t do anything without him, but because it’s one of those Scary For Aunt Becky Appointments, a Landmark Appointment, if I may (and I always may).

Today is the Doppler/Heartbeat day.

And although I’m still sick as shit, still have the world’s worst soapy taste in my mouth constantly, still haven’t taken a proper poo in who knows how long, I’m full of nervous. In fact, I’m so ridiculously nervous that I ASKED MY MOTHER (the least sympathetic/reassuring person on the planet. You have to trust me on this) TO COME WITH ME. Oh yes, yes I did.

If I’m gonna get bad news, I’d rather have SOMEONE besides Alex there to help me out.

*sighs*

I’m a neurotic freak, I know.

Amidst a sea of hormonal nerves, I managed to get my ass into the US room without being carried (it would have been no small feat to carry me), where the US tech promptly squirted the freakishly warm goo onto my belly, when she saw…

A baby. Possibly a Bobble Head, but it had a beating heart so I don’t care how disproportionate it is. Both of my Sausages have satellites where their heads should be (think orange on a toothpick) and I’m pretty used to it by now. It appears that the Sausagebryo is no exception. Huge heads, apparently, are genetic.

It also has a heart that was beating a respectable 160 beats per minute (BPM), apparently geniusness is also genetic. See look at me, making up words. Pure unadulterated geniusness.

The Sausagebryo Link ALSO showed it’s superiority by waving it’s toes at me. It’s tiny shrimpy toes. Obviously it’s as advanced as me! *I* myself wiggled my toes today, too! The Link obviously takes after me.

I am now in possession of a due date to call my own: February 8, which seems a perfect day to be born, if you ask me. I have a July birthday, which means that as a kid, I *never* got to celebrate my birthday at school like the other kids. Apparently, lack of classroom cupcakes has scarred me for life.

All is currently quiet on the Crotchal Front, just the way it should be. I’m weaning myself off my Vitamin W and my beloved Diet Coke, so the next few weeks might be a tad more melodramatic than usual (oh! The HUMANITY OF HAVING TO WEAR SOCKS!). So please bear with your Aunt Becky as she goes not-so-quietly insane.

I might have made previous mention that I suck at being pregnant. I probably said it in passing, or made some joke about beached whales and trying to roll out of bed, or maybe I even named a blog category after this sad fact.

I suck at being pregnant so much that I cannot believe anyone who “glows” or whatever is doing anything other than trying to feed me a line of BS. Or to make me feel bad about myself for being such a whiny baby.

Pregnancy #1: Benjamin.

Was knocked up by complete accident at age 20, the same age when no one believes that you have enough of a brain stem to care for a child. The jury is still out on that one, but Ben is still alive and kicking.

This pregnancy was particularly sucky because of all the OTHER shit going on around me.

Take 1 asshole boyfriend who runs and hides his penis in other women when the going gets rough, add 1 mentally-ill mother who is convinced that you’re going to give the baby up for adoption that she asks your brother to take him if you freak out and you have a recipe for disaster. An appetite for destruction if I may (and I always may).

Physically, I was fine when I was pregnant aside from swelling up to the size and approximate shape of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (it was August, man). The only symptom that I had was that I was chronically exhausted, so exhausted that I would sleep 16-18 hours a day.

Escapism anyone?

Pregnancy #2: Alexander

After years of assuming uber-fertility, was astonished when I didn’t get easily knocked up. Apparently you’re more fertile when you’re young and stupid.

Upon being knocked up, became violently ill 24-7. Puked my brains out all day, every day and eventually had to quit my job, as I couldn’t drive 45 minutes in the car while puking. Ended up so depressed that my ever-widening ass made many dents in my couch. May have even worn some of the fabric off.

Was also incredibly paranoid of losing the baby. Worried like it was my job, made matters much worse.

Which brings us to…

Pregnancy #3: Link (aka Sausagebryo)

Pretty much remove the emotional issues, and you have my current pregnancy. I’m unbelievably exhausted, nauseous (but without the vomiting), and just sick. I have no energy for unloading the dishwasher, let alone trying to spend Quality Time with the kids (unless you count turning the TV to Noggin as QT, which of course, I do).

Between this and the spotting, my poor husband may not get laid again for many years.

I suppose that the upside of down here is that I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed about the Link. I spot occasionally, but I’m fairly sure it’s related to the suppositories (oh, the joy of those bitches), so I’ve relaxed a bit. Between the intense sickness and the ever expanding poo-baby taking up residence in my gut (when someone tells you that they show earlier with subsequent babies, BELIEVE THEM. Especially when they haven’t shat in 3 days.), I’m more calm than I’ve been.

Until, of course, my US on Wednesday in which I will be reduced to a blubbering mess.

The last time I was pregnant with a viable baby–Alex (a.k.a.The Deer Hunter)–I’ve mentioned that I worried a fair bit. But I think that “worried a bit” doesn’t quite do justice for how much I fucking worried. For someone who never worries about her kids after they’re born, I like to imagine I get my worrying out before they’re born.

Either that, or pregnancy makes me totally nuts (which is my story and I’m sticking to it. I’m quite frankly terrified of pregnant women. This makes it really hard when I am the pregnant one, as you can imagine. Who wants to be afraid of themselves?).

I’d gone into this last pregnancy with the singular stipulation that I wasn’t going to worry. Let go and let God. Thy will be done. Or whatever. Either way, I wasn’t going to waste valuable ‘eatin’ time’ worrying about my unborn fetus. Whether it lived or died, I wasn’t going to worry until I knew I needed to. How do you prepare yourself for a bad outcome anyway?

(Conversely, I’d gone into Alex’s pregnancy promising myself that I wouldn’t get as fat as I had with Ben. 60 pounds later–on a diet of egg whites and tofu–I’m still puzzling that one out. I’m starting to think that maybe I should go into these things without any sort of expectations. Seems futile).

And I did so well for a couple of weeks without worrying. I did so incredibly well. I all but ignored my pregnancy, choosing to focus on other such pressing issues as What I Am Craving At The Moment and How Nauseous Is Enough. I didn’t go in for early monitoring because, why bother? It’s going to stick or it’s not.

But somehow, when I saw that blob with a pixelated heart a-beating away in it’s chest, I started to really care. And when I really care, I really worry. Especially when the spotting continues like it did last night.

Thankfully, this morning has brought no blood AND a call from my doctor with the news that I have low progesterone. So, for the next 5-6 weeks, I will be shoving sexy little suppositories into my love hole. My hoo-haa. That should be AWESOME. I will be beating men away from me with sticks. STICKS, I tell you.

So, the State Of What’s Up Down There is now at a blissful peace. I can only hope it remains that way for the next 30 odd weeks.

And if (when?) this Sausagebryo is born, I shall ground him or her for scaring me so very much. I’m thinking for the next 16 years or so.

After a grueling morning of appointments then ultrasounds scheduled in completely separate cities we now know two things:

1) My cervix is closed

2) The Sausagebryo has a heart rate of 122. The US chick said it looked a little small, but it’s pixelated heart was merrily beating away.

Thank you to everyone who rooted for me throughout this. I couldn’t have done it without knowing The Internet was marching behind me. Seriously.

Now I need a nap.

Last Friday, I was sitting here at my Mac marveling at the positive pregnancy tests that I had in my pockets as sort of a good luck charm. I’d pull them out, smile to myself the kind of “I have a delicious secret” smile and put them back in my pocket. Occasionally, I’d pat my pocket to reassure that yes, indeed the test was really real.

And here I sit, one week later, having thrown out all of my pregnancy tests and feeling…empty. Just so very empty.

Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.

I am shocked and honored to know each and every one of you.

Maybe we’d never recognize each other on the street (well, you’ve all seen what I look like), and maybe I’ll never meet any of you face to face (also doubtful because I have high plans to meet most of you. Sorry, preemptively for my crashing on your couch. Oh, and I like orange juice for breakfast–freshly squeezed), but I consider you all to be my friends.

You’ve proved it to me before, and you’ve solidified it with this most recent miscarriage. I’d love to thank you all and give you big sloppy kisses and hugs, but it wouldn’t be enough.

It just wouldn’t.

Nothing will ever say thank you quite the way I want it to, so I’ll try and tell you how much each and every comment that you made, every email and IM that I got lifted my burden. Things are lighter now.

It reminded me of how fortunate I really am to have people prop me up, dust me off, and remind me that I’m going to be just fine. That past sentence is precisely what I’ve used in the past to describe what I feel is true friendship, and I think it fits here, as well.

Cornball as it may sound, you are my friends, and if you know me at all, you’d know how strongly a bond I consider that to be. Thank you for reminding me of all the good that has sprung up around me (even during a time of garbage and crap) and how blessed I am to have each and every one of you in my life.

I’m not implying in any way that I’m completely recovered from this miscarriage, nor will I always be peeing roses and sunshine, but you’ve shown me that it doesn’t matter one bit if I’m being funny and self-deprecating or honest and true. That somehow you like me anyway WITHOUT BRIBERY.

I don’t think that there is anything I can ever do to truly show my appreciation to all of you for listening to me whine about this latest miscarriage, and believe me, I will be wracking my brain to try and do something nice for you all. If any of you were local (I’m looking at YOU, LAS) I’d invite you over for cookies that I MIGHT EVEN COOK MYSELF and Diet Coke. The offer stands for anyone willing to swing by. I WILL COOK FOR YOU (maybe not very well, but I will do it anyway).

As for the Uterus Monologues, I ended up with my ass in the ER today and was diagnosed with…wait for it, wait for it, A BLADDER INFECTION TOO! Wonders never cease to amaze me. I’m following up with my OB on Wednesday and hopefully he’ll have some insight into what the hell is wrong with me. Or not.

And as for my mental health, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. I’m just going to channel all of my energy into my due date buddies: Doc Grumbles and Niobe. If my critters won’t grow properly, well, then Universe, you’d better make DAMN sure that theirs do or You are going to have an appointment with my fists of fury.

Thank you all for everything. Thank you so very much.

In a stunning fit of personal irony, The Daver and I were called upon to serve on a jury of our peers on the same day.

That day is tomorrow.

One of us is going to perform his civic duty, while I have to call in sick so that I can go back to the doctor. Again. And trust me when I tell you that I wish like hell that I was going with him.

Going to the doctor for this latest miscarriage is only going to dig the old nail in a little deeper and remind me that hells yes, my body is expelling yet another ickle and well-wanted critter. And then I have to suffer the indignity of another ass shot performed with the sterile equivalent of a ball-point pen. It’s going to be AWESOME.

It’s weird, I never really knew how I would react to having a miscarriage. On the logical side of my brain, I am pleased that it didn’t happen any later than it did: having it happen at all is sad, but having it happen at 4 months, 7 weeks, or 9 months is far worse. The emotional side of my body is telling me that this is yet another loss of something I really had wanted. I would have loved the wee critter as much as I love my not-so-wee critters and I wish this had a different outcome.

The hormones aren’t helping matters one tiny bit, but I think ultimately I will decide that this is neither here nor there. In the end, I suppose it all comes down to the idea of luck. I hate the concept of luck. If I am lucky because I have a truly wonderful husband and 2 hilarious kidlets, that makes someone who doesn’t have these things unlucky.

But what did I do to deserve these wonderful things that I do have? And what did someone who doesn’t have these things do to not deserve them? Should I feel lucky to not be those people, or should I have survivor’s guilt and feel terribly for them? (I’ll let you guess which one I feel, and it’s not the first option). I’d love for The Universe to shower good fortune and luck onto everyone in the world, but it’s just not the way it works, and I don’t know why.

I can accept having one early miscarriage, hell I can accept having two, although it seems a bit careless. In the grand scheme of things, I’m still pretty blessed and I don’t forget it for a moment. Honestly, I never do. But to have two of these miscarriages/chemical pregnancies within 30 days just seems cruel and unusual to me. I comforted myself by telling myself that I cannot be so unlucky so as to have two in a row, but it seems that my luck has changed. And I am beyond devastated.

Despite my devastation, I refuse to subscribe to fear, though, and let that overrun my life. I’ll have another baby, or I won’t. I’ll go back to school or I won’t. I’ll paint the kitchen or I won’t. But I won’t not do something (hello double negative!) because I am afraid of a bad outcome. That’s a stupid way to live my life, and I refuse to do it.

Maybe I’ll never get to the truly peaceful place again, and maybe I’ll always be a little afraid of things outside of my control, but that’s okay. It’s what makes life interesting and us humans.

It happened, I’m suitably wrecked, and I’ll survive. It’s what we all do.

I’m not a huge believer in signs, nor am I a fan of using magical thinking (although there was a time when I used it frequently and with gusto. Before you judge, I was a teenager, and I think this is a pretty common teenage thing). I don’t tend to look below the surface for much at all, instead I try and understand what is in front of me.

But I can’t help but feel like maybe this is just sign that I don’t need to have more children. The quest for Baby #3 isn’t something either of us are pursuing with as much vigor as we had with the creation of Baby #2. I like having 2 kids, and I think I’d like to have 3, but maybe 2 is enough. Maybe I should just focus on the 2 that I have, assume that they are more than enough and move the hell on with my life.

A life that doesn’t include midnight feedings, more stretch marks, chapped nipples and the avoidance of lunch meats. The 2 I have came fairly painlessly, I had no known miscarriages before I had either of them and I love them fiercely. Maybe that should be enough for me.

Maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead and save myself any future hopes and subsequent heartaches. Having another child would just be the icing on an already iced cake, and although it might taste good, it’s not completely necessary for my continued happiness.

When I look around at my blog friends, I’m constantly reminded that the Universe is simply not a fair place, and that maybe I should just be grateful for what I do have and stop trying to pursue a dream that may not end in a happy way for me. Why push the envelope for something I don’t know that I really want?

The one stipulation that I had for my “last” pregnancy was that I try to relax, let go and let God and enjoy my last chance at gestation. I spent so many days and nights worrying with the other two (especially Alex) that I made myself ill and I didn’t want to do that to myself or my family again. But now I don’t see anyway that I won’t worry should I get knocked up again.

And I have to ask myself, is it all worth it? Sure it’s just a blip on the radar as far as Very Bad Things go, but it’s my second blip in 2 months, and the hormones are certainly going to kill me again.

Is any of this worth going through again?

I guess I just don’t know anymore.