Today I surrendered to the mattress.
I woke up at exactly 5:48am … and fell back to sleep until 6:22am. It was too late to make it to class, so I slept and went to the mat at 4:00 in the afternoon. I was mad at myself for the precisely 10 seconds it took me to fall back to sleep. Sleep my body was literally begging me to take.
What day does the 60 days end? – my doctor asked.
January 24th, I smiled.
Yes, today I went for my second check-up. If all goes according to plan The Girl Who Likes Chicken n’ Dumplings eggs will be retrieved on January 24th — the final day of 60 Days on the Mat. And if all goes well after that; they will put the embryos back in me on the 29th. This has been the tentative schedule since they made the schedule in December, and today we are still on that track. Of course, it’s still very early in the process.
I am trying to stay even, but I can’t help but think about how kismet-esque it all is. Or as my friend Selma would say, It’s beshert (preordained in yiddish). I can’t help but hope it is.
I was feeling really open and light. Drinking cold pressed juice for four days will do that for you. We started on the floor. I tried to push it all out of my mind. The present moment can often be so elusive, even on your yoga mat. We started with some alternate nose breathing. My stomach was gurgling, but I was not hungry. I start thinking about the future. I focus on the breath to bring me back, but the question swarm is too powerful.
What if I have twins? My great-grandmother had two sets of twins almost back to back. Mawmaw was a twin. Her Daddy, Grandpa Wines, was a twin. Of course, genetically I have nothing to do with this. But if I have a uterus some women would kill for, maybe Mamaw Wines had a uterus some women would have killed for in the 1920s? Maybe I have a made-for-twins uterus? Twin uteruses run in my family and I am the uterus in this scenario. Is there a Jewish prayer for your uterus?
At this point, I stop myself. Yes, I did actually wonder if there was a Jewish prayer for your uterus. There seems to be one for everything, so it was worth asking. The question swarm was getting ridiculous.
I also feel like I should now apologize to my father for having to read more than any father should have to about his daughters uterus. Sorry, Dad.
We sit back on our feet. The pain is so intense I can think of nothing else. My arches are screaming at me. We push back into our first downward facing dog. I feel strong. I stop thinking about my uterus.
You are the worst babysitter in the WORLD!! I mean it, Terry. The WORST!!
I took Sean and Tricia to the movies. I will never forget it because I was mortified. The movie was Oscar in Grouchland. Tricia was an angel, but Sean wanted to play the video games in the lobby more than he wanted to sit in the movie. Like any good babysitter, I told him if he was good in the movie he could play one afterwards.
I have never seen the end of Oscar in Grouchland. Yes, we left. And no, he did not get to play a video game on the way out. So, what happened next, you ask? He collapsed in the parking lot and screamed at the top of his lungs — You are the WORST babysitter in the WORLD!! I mean it, Terry. The WORST!! The entire parking lot is staring at me.
As we’re twisting I am thinking about that day. It makes me laugh more than anything else. I was pretty strict for a babysitter. I would melt the ice cream bars when Sean wouldn’t stop trying to eat them. I put their toys in Toy Jail, which was a cardboard box we made with actual bars on it. Sometimes they would start fighting, I would look at them and they would just put the toy in the jail on their own.
We go into bridge pose and I can feel the opening across my chest. I think about motherhood. What does that feel like? I think about all of the kids I’ve mothered in the past. Ryan. Paige. Tricia. Sean. I was a great babysitter, despite Sean’s tantrum. I think he would tell you that now, too — despite the fact that he unfriended me on Facebook. I don’t take this personally, it’s not cool to be friends with your ex-babysitter — or he is still mad at me about the ice cream bars.
I want, Terry! Teh-er-y, don’t go! — Paige says, through hysterical 2-year old sobs.
Her Dad had come home from work. She was in her high chair and I was feeding her. Ryan was always thrilled for his parents to be home and Paige usually was, too — but for whatever reason on this day she was having none of me leaving. All the way to my car, Please, don’t go. Terry! Terry! Big tears. Hysterical sobs. Broke my heart.
I’m in headstand and I start feeling like a mother. Like it could actually happen. All the Shakespeare I studied. All the Tennessee Williams monologues I memorized. This is the only role I’ve always longed for. Trying to attain it has taken me to the edge and back again more times than I like to admit.
As I’m in the final twists, I think — Is this really possible? Could Jonathan and I be parents by the end of the year?
Yes, it is. It’s really possible.
If Sean and Paige are any indication, I must be ready. I can be hated and loved with great intensity by children.