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My doctor’s appointment this week was uneventful.  I knew that it would be.

Before Bear, I struggled for a long time in my attempts to convince a previous doctor that four periods in a year and a half was not related to the after-effects of birth control.  Eventually, that doctor found a small pituitary tumor and sent me to an endocrinologist, who was more interested in helping me.  However, after a year of treatment and still no periods, he tacked me with a PCOS label and handed me back to my OB (a new one at this point).  She promised me that they would not waste my time, and fortunately, I got pregnant the first time I ovulated.

My OB was wonderful throughout my pregnancy, except for one little issue that she never seemed fully to grasp.  Along our trying to conceive journey, my husband went through some common testing.  Although he is not generally prone to embarrassment, he found the concept of semen analysis daunting.  Since I was used to having every nook and cranny of body examined, I assumed that semen analysis would be no big deal and without a lot of sympathy, sent him off with an order from my doctor.

When he returned, I asked him how it went.  “Not well” was the reply.  I pressed him to expand on his two-word explanation, but all he would say was that he didn’t do it right, turned in his cup, and left.  He would share no further details, almost as though he were too traumatized to talk.

At my next appointment, my doctor shared the news that my husband had no swimmers.  Not one.  Instead of the response that she expected, I looked at her and laughed.  I explained what I knew about his experience, and told her that I didn’t think that the results were accurate.  A second semen analysis was ordered, but my husband put it off and fortunately, I got pregnant before I could cajole him into returning.

Minutes after Bear was born, my doctor jokingly told me that she looked just like her daddy, almost as though her existence was some sort of perverse inside joke.  One, I might say, that I didn’t find very funny.

At my appointment this week, my doctor kept telling me that with a male factor, it just takes longer.  But, according to her, “it only takes one.”  Again, I repeated my husband’s funny little story, and again, she repeated her joke about how Bear looks just like my husband and added “so we know that she is his.” I replied that my daughter now looks just like me, and with this news, my doctor jovially hit me on the shoulder and pulled another much-used phrase from her repertoire and said, “Well, good for you.  You deserve it.”

I left that appointment shaking my head and with an order to have my progesterone tested.  If the spotting continues, my doctor suggested an HSG to look for fibroids or polyps that could be causing the spotting and another semen analysis for my husband.  But hopefully, I’ll be pregnant first.

I put a greasy Bear to bed a few minutes ago.  Her chattering has grown quiet, and I know that she is tired, because she refused to leave the doctor’s office this morning.  Then, she refused to leave the car, and later, she refused to let me change her diaper.  When according to her doctor’s suggestion, I smeared hydrocortisone and then Aquaphor all over Bear’s body to help her eczema, she cried big tears and said, “No, Mommy.  No.”  However, when I turned her onto her stomach so I could coat her back, she gave in and pressed her little cheek into the changing pad and looked up at me from one side with big eyes.  The back rub seemed to subdue her, which is fortunate, because I know that she needs to sleep.

My city is packed in snow again today.  The snow started shortly after noon yesterday and fell continuously through early this morning.  Yesterday evening, stalled cars blocked every route I attempted to leave the area where I work.  I watched less-fortunate drivers being towed up a hill that my all-wheel drive vehicle was able to traverse.  Despite my heater running as high as possible, my windows kept icing over and chunks of ice quickly formed around my windshield wipers.  My twenty-minute drive from work to Bear’s daycare yesterday evening stretched to an hour and a half.  When I arrived, Bear was the only child there.  She’d been left with a high school girl, while the one remaining full-time care provider was outside shoveling the sidewalk and working on a path to my car.  Bear’s diaper was so full that large, wet rings had formed around her legs, but she seemed as oblivious to her neglect as the high school girl was.  Instead, Bear ran around the empty classroom with a look of glee on her face as though I had stopped by simply to play.  When she began rolling on the mats, I scooped her up and quickly dressed her for the blizzard outside.   The blowing snow and frigid air quickly changed Bear’s attitude from one of excitement to one of careful curiosity, and I heard little from her on the way home except the occasional “car,” “snow,” and “pretty.” 

We expect another inch of snow tomorrow and another three or four inches this weekend. I love the snow, but I think that I’ll be ready for spring after this next round. 

In the meantime, enjoy this picture of Bear’s first snow from December 2009. 


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