November 2, 2008

My Little Giraffe

Best Photo

Funniest Costume (because of the tail of course!)

Cutest Costume 3 and Up

I realized this morning that I forgot to post photos of Dawson in his Halloween costume.  Okay, I only remembered because my friend e-mailed me to say, “Hey!  Did you post the giraffe pictures yet?”

So there you go.  That last photo is Dawson making a giraffe noise.  Now I realize you can’t hear this, and I must confess he’s not actually making a noise in that photo.  He simply has his mouth open, with no sound coming out, because his teacher told him that giraffes have vocal chords but can’t make many sounds with them. (It’s true.  I googled it. In fact, they communicate at an infrasound level.)  So everytime anyone would ask Dawson what a giraffe sounds like, he’d open his mouth and sort of grunt quietly or say nothing at all.  It was rather cute.

You learn something every day at The Dana Files, no?  How was your Halloween?  Did you enter this Blurb Halloween Photo Contest going on over at the Parent Bloggers Network?  Click here for details!

September 8, 2008

Book Review: Maybe Baby: An Infertile Love Story

Several years ago, four years and nine months to be exact, I discovered I was pregnant with my beautiful baby boy. But only a year before that, I was diagnosed with Poly-cystic ovarian syndrome, and told that my chances of conceiving a child were slim — or that it would be very difficult for my body to ovulate, thus making my journey to motherhood a long and windy road of uncertainty.

I can’t count the number of times I cried and cursed, confessed and denied my anger, and prayed to God; please Dear Lord, grant me a child. All I wanted was to be a mother. From the moment Doug and I spoke our vows in front of hundreds of relatives and friends at beautiful St. Bronislava church, visions of babies danced in my head.

As a Polish Catholic, I was raised with the notion that a woman’s purpose was to have lots of babies, cook too much food and feed everyone. After all, the women in my family are baby factories. Most have four or more children. When I realized my body may never house a child, I panicked.

Thanks be to God, I did get pregnant and delivered a healthy baby boy, but those early trials still haunt me. As if they happened only yesterday, I still remember the frustration, sadness and anger. The questions from family as to when we’d have children and why….why wasn’t it happening already?

Four years and 9 months later, I’m suffering infertility once again. My husband and I have been trying to have a second child for over a year without success. It’s a battle that I often feel like I’m losing. How can two people who love each other so much survive the battle of infertility?

The Parent Bloggers Network asked me if I’d like to read the book Maybe Baby by Matthew M.F. Miller and I jumped at the chance. I was excited to read a man’s point of view on infertility issues. Then the book arrived and I read the back cover and began to cry.

“Constance got her period for the tenth month in a row, and I stood in the bathroom having never felt like less of a man in my entire life.”

I cried because when it comes to infertility, it’s usually the woman with the “problem”. In Matthew’s case, he discovered he had a low sperm count. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, if you’re “the one,” the infertile, the feelings of inadequacy are devastatingly real.

Matthew’s story begins with memories of his youth, from the house he grew up in, to his struggles as an overweight teen. He describes his emotions with vivid recollection of how he avoided “full-on sex” until he “was no longer fat”, to meeting the woman of his dreams, Constance, and the passionate love they share.

Their desire for children began with beautiful green nursery bedding from Pottery Barn, which they ordered before becoming pregnant (after crawling out of $18,000 in credit card debt — due to their love of the stylish, and shopaholic tendencies).

As I read about the excitement Matthew and Constance shared when opening the box of green frill and softness, I remembered my own excitement when I bought that first baby sleeper after discovering I was indeed having a baby.

But years before, whenever I shopped for gifts for friends’ baby showers, my anticipation of my own pregnancies caused waves of excitement and to wash over me. But I have never experienced the pain of knowing that a $300 dollar nursery set is tucked in a closet, unused, because of infertility.

I must confess: reading Matthew’s book was difficult for me. Tears stained every other page as I read about the four moments he knew he wanted to be a father, to his anxiety over “masturbating in public” at the clinic.

Reading about Matthew and Constance’s struggles with Clomid refreshed my memory of my own use of the fertility drug. His anticipation over the results of a home pregnancy test and the let down he and Constance felt upon seeing that Big Fat Negative made me recall my own disappointment with every stick I’ve ever peed on.

And then I read chapter sixteen, and all of page 188 is now soaked with my salty tears:

“Joe’s funeral was a wholly Catholic affair. Polish Catholic to be exact, which led to an hour and a a half of standing, kneeling, sitting, praying, and sobbing. All of which was closely followed by countless rounds of food and beverages served up by and white-and-black clad waiters in a Polish banquet hall. Sausages, sauerkraut, pierogies, liver and dumplings, chicken and beef were all served as a gut-busting tribute to our dear friend’s brother.”

Oh, how true this is! Polish Catholic funerals are grand affairs; celebrations of the lives of our loved ones who have passed.

And then I read page 189:

“Two pews in front of us, a young woman was struggling to contain the pacifier and slightly jarring coos of a less-than-two-year-old toddler as Gina’s mom stoically revealed the irreparable heartbreak of her daughter, who had purchased her wedding dress the day before the accident. teh toddler was a perfect, dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty with a mat of curls secured on the top of her head by a small pink bow.”

Church is my private hell. Catholic women are raised to make babies. Every Sunday at Mass, I cry just a little as I watch the family with seven beautiful children make their way to the front pew. A few rows over, another family with five children, gets situated in their seats.

Meanwhile, I sit in the far back row, with my husband and son, so that no one can see me cry over the children I wish I had. It isn’t that my son isn’t enough, I love him dearly — more than words can describe. I cry because the house of God is a safe place, but for me it represents pain. Pain I can’t seem to let go.

Instead of celebrating the vows my husband and I took in that very church, or celebrating the baptism of the child we have, the sacred sacraments professed in praise to God, I cry silent tears in the last row.

Matthew writes so openly about his struggles and about the hope he and Constance felt when choosing to do IVF. While IVF isn’t something I’m able to do (for religious reasons), I pray that this method works for Constance and Matthew.

This book is brilliant; honest and compassionate. Matthew shares his raw emotions with the reader. He reaches out to those who have walked in his shoes, as well as to those who may not understand what the infertile world goes through.

This book isn’t just about the pain he and Constance have endured, it’s also a love story. A story of two people who stand by each other through good times and bad, through life and loss, and for all the days of their lives.

Thank you, Matthew Miller, for sharing your story with us. Thank you PBN, for allowing me the privilege of reading this amazing book.

For more information about Maybe Baby, please visit Matthew’s website.

August 9, 2008

Forks and French Fries: A Dinner Time Fit

Before I was pregnant, Doug and I enjoyed going out to dinner at least once a week.  As I look back on it now, that’s a lot of money spent on dining out.  But we were young and childless and one of our favorite ways to spend some of that disposable income was on steak & shrimp and the occasional dinner drink.

After Dawson was born, our disposable income went into the garbage can along with the poopy diapers.   Sure, we ordered take-out, but maybe once every other month if we were lucky.   We didn’t venture out to a restaurant with the baby in tow until he was at least 18 months old.  Doug had this crazy fear of being shunned for bringing our cute, sleeping beauty into an eating establishment.

Little did he know the days when Dawson was asleep in his car seat are much easier than a constantly moving toddler that demands to be entertained at every moment.  Ask an 18-month old to wait patiently for his food to arrive like the rest of us?  Have you lost your ever loving mind?  Apparently we had.

I was unprepared for the dining with kids experience.  Even though I had a diaper bag packed with the necessities like bibs, baby spoons and a sippy cup, I failed to bring reinforcements such as Cheerios and small toys to aid in baby distraction.

No sooner than the young, smiling waitress took our order did Dawson decide to throw a fit.  He began to scream and throw his silverware.  He squirmed and tried desperately to wriggle out of the high chair, arching his back while this coyote-like howl came out of his mouth.  I didn’t know what else to do but pick him up and leave the table.  I couldn’t handle all the people staring at us.  It was awful.

Doug had a look of horror on his face.  Actually, it was more a look mixed with anger and humiliation.  He asked the waitress to make our order to go, and we waited in the car until it was ready (and how ironic that Dawson stopped crying once he was strapped in his car seat!). I don’t think we ventured out to dinner again until Dawson was darn near three years old.

Thankfully, my son is almost four years old and now knows that he must behave while at the meal table.  If there’s any doubt in my mind that he’ll misbehave, we change our plans, but I always bring crayons and a small notepad with me to the restaurant, just in case he surprises me with an outburst.

This morning we went out to lunch at The Wooden Chair (one of the best cafes in town) and my little boy was well-behaved.  He was polite to the waitress, he ate almost all of his pancakes and he carried on a conversation with me about preschool.  So much better than throwing forks and french fries.

Speaking of fries, Burger King’s apple fries are awesome (I tried them as part of my new commitment to being fit).  So are their new kids’ meal toys by Crayola.  Dawson got the pocket sized “Happy Ever After” coloring book with his kids’ meal and it’s been tucked in my purse ever since.

There are nine toys in all (one with every BK Kids’ Meal), perfect for boys or girls, so there’s no need to scream, “a chicken nugget meal with a boy toy” into the speaker at the drive-thru (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve blushed after realizing those words came out of my mouth!)

Waiting Patiently for Pancakes.

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This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by Burger King Corp.  You can participate in this blog blast, too!  Visit this PBN post for details.

June 8, 2008

I’m No Rachael Ray, So I Married Alton Brown

I’m not a horrible cook. I’m not the world’s greatest chef, either. It’s safe to say I can turn on the oven, boil water, and make almost any basic recipe given to me. I have a vast collection of cookbooks and I love to dig them out of the back of my pantry to try something new on occasion, but for the most part, my husband is the master chef of our kitchen.

When we were first married, I cooked dinner every weekday. My husband always seemed to eat what I prepared and never complained, however, as a former line cook in a popular local restaurant, he always took it upon himself to educate me on cooking techniques and ways to “doctor up” my favorite dishes.

I always say if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and it started to irritate me that my loving spouse had a “suggestion” for every meal I made. After a few years I decided to hand over the reigns. If he was so smart, he could do all the cooking, right?

In fact, Doug thinks he’s the greatest chef in town and often refuses to go to restaurants because he believes he could cook the meal ten times better. (This is probably why we haven’t gone to Chili’s in ages. He insists on outdoing their baby back ribs.)

After Dawson was born, I barely had time to shower let alone stand in the kitchen over a hot stove. Then I discovered Rachael Ray and fell in love with her 30-Minute Meals. Her cookbooks are my favorites, because when I do have to cook, she makes it quick and somewhat easy. I’ve even caught myself saying, “Yummo” and using a garbage bowl.

My husband, a FoodNetwork addict, will frantically write down recipe ingredients from these shows, and then try to recreate the culinary masterpieces. He will spend hours watching Alton Brown on Good Eats, and has a secret crush on Giada De Laurentiis.

A few years ago, I thought it would be fun to make an Emeril recipe for coconut shrimp. I bought all the necessary ingredients, made the batter with the flaked coconut, and proceeded to line the coated shrimp in rows on a baking sheet. I was so impressed with myself, until I realized I forgot to clean the shrimp veins. My husband assured me we wouldn’t die from eating shrimp poop, but it took me a good three weeks to eat the little crustaceans again.

These days, my “cooking” consists of visits to Subway, and Dawson doesn’t seem to mind. (Of course my know -it-all husband insists he could make a better sub at home. He probably could.)

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This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a contest sponsored by the American Egg Board. If you’d like to participate in this blog blast, visit this PBN post for details.

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Don’t forget, today is the last day to enter this contest! (You have until 11:59 pm CST, comments will be closed at midnight CST.)