Two Good Eggs

Two cracked eggs find the sunnyside (and funny side) of trying to conceive

We’re so Egg-cited to announce our giveaway winners!

We have exceeded 100 followers and, as promised, we have drawn names for another giveaway. Thank you all for following us!

And the winners are: Jessielou and Megan!

We will contact you for shipping information 🙂  Can’t wait to send you a little something special!

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Normal is as normal does…

A wise man once said, “Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Actually, it was his wise MAMA who said that.  I digress.
It’s so true, though.  Lately, I have been feeling like someone went into my Whitman’s Sampler and switched out all the milk chocolate caramel ones with the nasty foamy strawberry or cherry ones.

I felt alone, and broken.  I asked myself, and God, “Why me?”

I felt like a circus freak.  The one with the broken ovaries and bad eggs.  I felt like going to see an RE would be like walking down a dark and empty corridor, greeted by a Magda receptionist under a swinging light bulb.

But this week I realized something.

I’m not alone.  And I’m not a freak. 

I sat in my RE office, awaiting my IUI on a rainy, cold, pre-hurricane Monday morning and people-watched.  As I did, I began to smile.  Everyone in that waiting room looked normal.  Every stereotype, every “reason” in my head that previously explained my infertility — I’m too old, I’m out of shape, I’m not thin enough, my husband’s too old – were all debunked.

The people in front of me before I checked in were about my age.  Both heavier than me and my husband.

The lady behind me was taller, thinner, healthier – and older.

The lady that emerged from the back to check out – much older than me.

The girl that came in as I was leaving – in her mid-20s, at best.

The couple on the couch – obviously there for their first consult – looked like a J.Crew ad.

These people were all beautifully normal.  And infertile.

We are not alone.  And we are not freaks.

Maybe that cherry chocolate isn’t so bad after all.


Tell me what to blog about during my TWW

Many of us are all to familiar with the Two Week Wait.

I’ve been out of contention for the TWW for a few months as we tried to iron out our next steps re: treatment.  As of Monday, I’m sperminated via IUI.  I didn’t think about entering into another TWW after the IUI was completed.

For the first time in a couple of months, I don’t have multiple doctor visits per week.  I have to sit quietly and stick to my knitting for the next 14 days.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

And, I can’t partake in my usual TWW past-time – POAS every day from 8DPO – because I’ll get false positives due to the Ovidrel in my system.  Dammit!

So, I turn to you – loyal followers – to help me pass my days.  Want me to take a picture of a dog pushing a mouse in a shopping cart?  Want me to blog about how I lost my first tooth in kindergarten?  Want to see me planking?

Give me some topics and I’ll do a TWW-a-day blog post, based solely on what you request.

Hit me!


My Thanksgiving turkey baster is safe. For now.

I adore Jason Bateman and Jennifer Aniston.  And I found their movie “The Switch” hilarious.  In case you haven’t seen it, here’s the Reader’s Digest version:

Jennifer and Jason are BFF.  We all know they’re going to end up together, from Scene 1, but that doesn’t take away from the movie’s humor.  For most of the movie, Jen is single and just wants to be a mama before her eggs rot.  She gets a sperm donor, and her hilarious gal pal Juliette Lewis throws her an insemination party.  Donor guy’s jizz is warming on a candle warmer in the bathroom, awaiting Jen’s basting.  Jason gets drunk and spills the jizz in the bathroom sink, and doesn’t want anyone to know.  So he gets his jollies while looking at a picture of Diane Sawyer, and replaces the jizz.  Shhhh!  Of course, baby comes out looking nothing like Donor Dad, and the hilarity ensues.

Jason was unsettled at the thought of her using a turkey baster to get the job done.  It is pretty absurd.  Although, now I can attest that this was not much better:

In my last update, I shared that our IVF path may end up detoured.  Sure enough, my Saturday ultrasound revealed only 3 tiny follicles on the left, and the one decent-sized one on the right, next to Cyrus.  The doc said this was not enough to warrant the pain and cost of IVF, but my estrogen level was high enough not to cancel the cycle altogether.  He switched me to IUI.  Chances are still low – about 15% chance of getting preggers, he said.  But it’s better than canceling the cycle after the expense of all the meds.

So, Saturday night, Sookie Stackhouse shot herself up with Ovidrel.  I had forgotten to take my shot until I was walking out the door to a Halloween party.  So, I lifted my apron, lowered my Merlotte’s booty shorts and got’er done.  So what if I got a little blood on my shirt.  I *am* in love with a vampire, after all.  Two, to be specific.  Mmmm.  Vampire Eric.

I digress.

We were also instructed to get busy on Saturday night, to have some sperm waiting in case I ovulated from the Ovidrel before the IUI – and to clean out my hubby’s pipes so that his IUI sample would be fresh as a daisy on Monday.  We were so tired, and somewhat drunk, after the party – thank goodness for PreSeed!  Wham, Bam, Goodnight Ma’am.

Fast-forward to Monday – my hubs went in at 8am to make his deposit to the Bank of Baby, and I didn’t have to go in til 9:30.

Then, it was my turn.   For the third time in 48 hours, someone other than my husband was trying to get a peek at my hoo-ha.  It’s amazing how quickly we’ll drop our drawers for a complete stranger, isn’t it?

Nurse Amy comes at me with something that had to have come from Edward Scissorhands’ supply closet.

I closed up shop, and tried to jump off the table.  She assured me it wasn’t a needle, but let me tell you.  I thought for sure that thing was going to come out my nose.

After laying on the table and having her try three times to get it into my “slightly mispositioned cervix”, she finally let out a sigh and said, ‘Ah, there we go.”   She then plunged slowly so as to avoid “sperm backwash” (her words, not mine), and then pulled out.

“Ok.  I’m done,” said Nurse Amy.

So I asked, “Was it good for you?”

She laughed and said, “Oh, yeah baby.  I totally hope I just got you pregnant.”

So now, we wait.  We “Two Week Wait” to be exact.  I’ll find out the results just before Thanksgiving.

Good thing my turkey baster is still clean.


I think my oven’s broken.

Have you ever tried to bake a cake, and knew with 100% confidence that you followed the recipe to the letter, only to have it turn out like this:

That’s how I feel after my first follicle check.  Inexplicable failure.  I think my oven’s broken.

I did all of my shots to the letter.  While traveling and juggling a crazy schedule away from home.  I went for my follicle check after 4 days of Follistim and Menopur shots.

Left side:  EMPTY.  Zero.  Nada.

Right side:  one teeny tiny follicle hanging out sad and alone, because a MONSTER cyst had reappeared and was sucking all the meds for its own nourishment.  A cyst, mind you, that had just painfully been drained a week before.


I felt so defeated.  My doctor told me that this could go one of two ways, and it’s too soon to tell yet which way it will be.

1.  The cyst could just be a nuisance, and it may be too soon for the follicles to have developed (some people are slower developers than others); or,

2.  The cyst could be hogging all the meds and cannibalizing the follicle development.

If it’s number 2, we have to kill this cycle and wait another month before trying again.

My doctor has increased my dosage to see if he can stimulate the follicles over the next couple of days.  I’m going back on Saturday for an ultrasound to see if Cyrus the Cyst is still at the all-you-can-eat buffet, or if he’s spreading the love to his little follie friends.

I’m praying that the follies are getting their drink on right now, because I already feel so defeated.  If I have to kill this cycle and wait another month to even get started, well… that’ll just take the cake.

The shitty, floppy, inedible cake.  From my old, broken oven.


Wine, needles, hotel room floors and belly buttons

Would you believe that airport security was not nearly as interested in my infertility issues as I am?   Hrmph.  🙂

Now, I have my drug paraphernalia all sprawled out inside my hotel room fridge.  That might explain why the only housekeeping service I’ve received is having my bed made… the poor lady won’t even touch my bathroom counter or desk!

I geared up to do my first shot on Sunday night, and admittedly nearly got drunk before I did it.  Two beers and three glasses of red wine were my pre-cocktail cocktail.

I stumbled back to my room and mustered the courage to try this first shot alone in my hotel room after a cocktail hour and before a business dinner.  I had a 15-minute window before I had to be at another event.

I spread out my gear on the hotel room floor (surely, that’s the most sterile location, right?) and began to sweat.  Half from nerves, half from the wine.  I take one last gulp of wine and pinched up a hunk of belly fat and cringed with closed eyes at the thought of piercing my belly with this needle for the first time.  I exhaled and took a look at the injection site, and snorted in laughter at the reality of what I saw.

Here I was, chicken-shit to stick this little needle into my skin a mere 2 inches away from my  [formerly] pierced belly button.   A piercing that took a needle three times as long and twice as big in diameter, and went all the way through to the other side.  A needle that I paid good money to stick through my body – while sober – when I was fresh out of college.

When I realized how ridiculous this was, I pushed the wine glass aside and stuck that bitchass needle into my belly.

That’s not to say I didn’t have another glass of wine on Night 2 … let’s not get crazy.

 Two shots down, two to go til first ultrasound to check follicles.


Do I look like a terrorist to you?

I used to freak out about whether or not my travel-sized shampoos and lotions would send the airport TSA agents into red alert.   Never did I imagine I’d have to explain the 10 hypodermic syringes, 10 Q-cap needles, additional multi-gauge needles, plus 12 vials of questionable liquids and powders as I walk through the screening area of my local airport.

Oh, and did I mention I’m on a direct flight to our nation’s capital, as well?  Awesome.

As luck would have it, our first round of IVF coincides with a business trip and I have to do my injections from a luxurious hotel room overlooking National Harbor.

I have my plan all figured out.  I plan to march right up to the first TSA screener and declare my infertility issue to him and all of the commuters within hearing distance. I plan to fan my Rx papers that match my name to every vial of questionable substance and flash my pearly whites and baby blues and dare him to question my allegiance to my country.

I may or may not have “America, the Beautiful” queued up in my iPhone ready to play in case of emergency.

Watch the news tonight.  My true identity may be revealed 🙂

I’ll update you soon on how Operation Shoot Up goes tonight.  Wish me luck (and courier me some wine)!


Worst TTC plan ever!

We realize that we’ve been kind of heavy around here lately and that’s unlike us!   Let’s have a little fun today.

I stumbled on this link today and holy moly!

We’ve all tried crazy things along our TTC journeys, but this one takes the cake!   Have any of you ever considered such a drastic measure?

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Another giveaway when we reach 100 blog followers!

We are over-whelmed at how quickly we have gained so many new friends with this blog!

When we hit 100 blog followers, we will randomly draw TWO names for a small giveaway!

Tell a friend!  Help us hit 100 and you could be a winner!

Be sure to follow us on Twitter for a way to win a prize there, too!

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Sh*t’s about to get real: pre-IVF wiggage

This is what I thought IVF looked like:

Ok – not really.  But I never really thought about the fact that DH and I would actually have to be an integral, physical part of the process leading up to this:

With mommy and daddy no where in sight, that is IVF from the doctor’s perspective.  You can imagine my shock when I realized that this is what IVF actually looks like from mommy’s perspective (and this is just for one month):

Today, I go in for my baseline ultrasound and mock-transfer (to make sure my plumbing will cooperate when they do the real deal in a couple of weeks).  Then, on Sunday night, while away on a business trip in another state (and without my husband), I get to start giving myself belly injections every night.  I thought I could handle this.  I thought this would be no big deal.

Now, I’m starting to wig a little.

Not about the pain (though that is definitely on my mind).  But about the reality of what we’re about to do.

We already have a healthy 4-year old.  Are we rocking his world with this?

We didn’t have to do IVF with him.  Should we reconsider this?

What if they mix up the embryos post-genetic screening and we don’t transfer a healthy one?

What if a year of trying with no luck (and 3 losses) is  a sign that we shouldn’t have another child?

Our doctor has told us why he thinks we’re having issues with a sticky bean, and if he’s right, IVF should rule any of those issues out.  So, in his mind, it’s a healthier, more promising result than if we tried to do this on our own for another indefinite period of time.

Why do we have so much trouble trusting?  Trusting our instincts, our doctors, the experts, God.

I’m a control freak by nature.   It’s hard for me to put my trust in others and turn this over to those who know better.   I’m trying to have faith in the doctors, in God, in the process.  But I’m wigging a little.

Did any of you ask yourself the same questions and struggle with your decision at all?  What helped you trust, and let go?

I haven’t even told my family we’re about to embark on this journey.  Over the past 12 months of TTC, I have spared the details because I didn’t feel like fielding the “how’s it going this month” questions, or the relentless advice.  And I didn’t have it in me to comfort them about the loss that I was experiencing.  Now, it feels wrong not to let them know what we’re about to go through – but it also feels abrupt to just spring it on them.  I’m not sure what to do…  I’m tempted to try Round 1 and see what happens, and open up to them after we know the results (around Thanksgiving).  What would you do?


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