Uppercase Woman

Fuck You, 2004

It’s the end of another year, and I’ve been trying to come up with some pithy and witty post to celebrate, and I’m just not there.

How do you say goodbye to a year such as this? A year I went through a hellish IVF cycle, got pregnant, only to lose my sons at five and a half months. Followed immediately by the reelection of that small minded cowboy that’s currently running this country. I can’t think of any fond memories I want to treasure.

OK, maybe one: this was the year my best friend Sarah got engaged.

Truthfully, my life is pretty good.

I have fourteen (14!) frozen embryos left.

Charlie and I have proven that we can go through anything and stay contented and even in love.

I have a great new therapist.

But above and beyond anything else, I have the most unbelievable friends. Sarah, of course, and Jo & E (and R too!), Elise and her husband and Miss P. Even people I didn’t expect to help me have been completely supportive, like Laura, who was going through plenty of her own grief. My sponsor is wonderful. All the young and confused members of my recovery group who were so nice to me and Charlie even when usually the biggest things on their minds are lipstick shades or their next dates. The women I met on an internet infertility bulletin board, who sent me food, and asked me to stay both when I was pregnant and when I wasn’t anymore. And, last but not least, the amazing, warm, wonderful and supportive people I’ve met through this blog, like Anne in Hawaii, and Moxie, and Danae , Rainbow, and all the Kathleens and the Julie(a)s and Andreas--the whole fucking lot of you (please don’t feel bad if I didn’t mention you by name--there are so, so many of you and I can’t fit everyone here!).

I would not have survived this horrible, crushing year if I hadn’t had all of you people in my life. Thank you for saving my ass, my sanity, and my heart, even though it’s still broken.

I will miss the life I would have had with Nicholas and Zachary every day. I miss them being inside me so much; it’s like nothing, nothing I’ve ever experienced.

But I am grateful. I’m grateful that I survived, that I didn’t end up in an emergency room and lose my uterus or have seizures and lose what’s left of my brain after all those years of drinking and drugging. I’m so, so, so grateful that my sons didn’t have to suffer, that the procedure I had is still, for the moment, legal.

I’m grateful, and deeply so, that my life is full--and I mean FULL--of love. Never before in my life have I felt so loved. I owe that to all of you.

I’d like to go off into a rant about how disgusting it is that our current president is spending more on his inauguration ceremony than he’s sending in aid to the Tsunami victims, but I won’t.

Instead I’ll leave you with this one small bit of advice before I leave you all for the next week while I'm on my cruise.

Those crystal rock deodorant things are cool, but they are salt-based, so don’t, I repeat, DO NOT use them on freshly shaven armpits. Ouch.

$$$$$

Once again, more evidence that I am absolutely crazy.

Thank you all so much for the help with the cruise questions. It became clear to me, as I read them, that I have an issue with money. This is funny, because I've always believed that Charlie has an issue with money, and I have a relationship with money. My lovely new therapist was happy to point out my inaccurate thinking (I greeted her by saying, "Do I seem bipolar to you?").

We chose a cruise because of the siren call of the "all-inclusive" idea. We are poor folks; well, ok, not poor, cause I've been poor and we're not that. There is, however, a reason that we have only gone camping on our vacations for many years now. It's because camping is fucking cheap.

So after plunking down the $1,900 for the cruise itself (we splurged on a balconey room), $300 for the plane fare down to Miami, we figured that an additional $1,000 for the trip for excursions and shopping would be down right luxurious. We assumed that we'd be coming home with enough cash to get us through that last day in Ft. Lauderdale before our plane trip home.

After reading everyone's responses, it does seem like we can do that, but we have to be careful in areas I didn't expect--like fucking SODA. And apparently, we'll have to fight off the photographers like Sean Penn when he was married to Madonna. We'll have to be sure, no matter what, not to buy a thing in the fucking gift shops.

All that is fine, but it's not the vacation that I'd envisioned. An all-inclusive vacation, in my book, includes soda. Not watching the charges mounting up on our on-board credit cards with horror. Some of the responses I got made me feel like even if we never left our room, the charges would just keep adding up wildly. I began to panic.

I found myself thinking that we'd arrive back in Miami with a huge bill that we couldn't pay and we'd have to scrub the ship's hull in order to leave.

When I brought up my panic and fears to my therapist, she asked me why I wasn't talking to Charlie about it. I said I didn't want to make him panic, too. She gave me a look (common in my therapists) and said, "Why would you deny yourself the strongest support you have?"

So when I got home, Charlie and I sat down with all of your responses, and created a chart. We figured out that it was good we were on Carnival, and that it really came down to only three things--pack smart so we don't need to buy personal things on the trip; take our own photographs; don't gamble or play bingo; don't go to the "special" restaurants; and buy ourselves soda cards (a flat rate for all the soda we can drink). If we avoid all of that stuff, the only expenses we'll incur are for our shore excursions and, oh lord, tips (and why aren't tips included in the all-inclusive thing?). I think we'll survive.

None of this is your fault, you lovely people. I just wanted, for once, to go on a vacation where money never entered the discussion. I could snap up horrible knickknacks in the gift shop, swim with the dolphins with abandon, get a facial and a massage at the spa EVERY DAY.

It's not to be. Instead, I'll swim with the stingrays, shop on shore, and skip the facials and massages. I'll probably enjoy myself just as much--I have no doubt--but I needed to shed my expectations.

In recovery we always say that "expectations are just preconceived resentments." So, in the long run, it's good to know the truth in advance.

I just needed to shed my lovely idea of playing a rich lady for a week. Sigh.

Cruise Questions

OK--so you all know I've never been on a cruise before. Many of you have commented to me that you have--so I have questions for you!

1. Someone told me yesterday that it costs $8 a minute to use the internet on the ship. Ouch! What I need to know is, what else costs a lot on board? I don't drink, so I don't have to pay for alcohol. I also know that it's going to cost me on the shore excursions. So what can I expect to pay for on the ship?

2. Did you get seasick? I get seasick on ferries. I've already gotten a prescription for the motion-sickness patch. Will I need it?

3. Some people have said it's cheaper to organize your own shore excursion adventures instead of doing it through the ship. What do you think?

4. How did you sleep? Did the motion of the ship trouble you?

5. How much cash do you need? Can you use your Visa-ATM card on the shore excursions? Is it better to use cash on shore?

6. How bad do those big Vegas-style shows suck?

7. How much did you lose in the Casino?

8. Did anyone on board have as many tattoos as I do (full sleeve elbow-to-shoulder on both arms, back)?

9. Is everyone young and skinny or old and wrinkled or middle-aged and fat?

10. I know that the main meals are paid for. But there is also a buffet, a sushi bar, a pizza parlour--are they all covered as well? Also, do you have to pay for soda (I know you do if you get it from the bar)?

Looking forward to your answers!

Ho Hum

I feel compelled to post but I have nothing to say. I'm tired from Christmas--yesterday I spent the entire day in my pajamas--and have a bit of a cold. Today I did a little yoga so I could feel mildly virtuous.

I'm sad about what's happened in Asia, I'm sad that Sarah is off to England for two weeks (hey Sarah-stop posting photos of my dog on your blog! Stealing my thunder, beotch!), and I'm sad that my guts are all in an uproar due to the rich foods I've been eating.

However, I'm very excited and happy about the cruise, and seeing several movies this week, and sleeping as late as I want, and not worrying about work.

That's it folks. More later.

Ho Ho Hooooo Boy

Today I:

-- Worked

-- Picked up the last presents

-- Cleaned my entire house (minus the bathroom, Charlie did that)

-- Cajoled Charlie into cleaning the bathroom

-- Spent three hours at Olive Garden with friends (one hour waiting for the table, one hour waiting for the food at the table, ten minutes eating, and 45 minutes waiting for the waitress to come back so we could get our check)

-- Baked two Key Lime Cheesecakes

-- Baked cheesecake covered brownies with chocolate buttercream icing (I put the icing on at 12:30 while watching the final big dance scene in Dirty Dancing for the 857th time) and yes, Tertia, I'll be eating some--you're too far away and too pregnant to really kick my ass

-- Wrapped all the presents, carefully balancing them afterwards on chairs so that Hammer's best friend (who is visiting until tomorrow night) doesn't pee on them and my cat Annie (who is obsessed with plastic and anything plastic-ish) doesn't chew the bows beyond recognition

Tomorrow I will then re-vacuum the couch as it will be hairy once again from the cats sleeping on it overnight, cook Christmas Dinner for either eight or ten people, or twelve people (don't worry, we have lots of MEAT), try to prevent my mother from discovering that we had a memorial ceremony for the boys since she wasn't invited but everyone else who is coming to Christmas dinner was, and then...

I shall collapse in a big stinky pile and watch It's A Wonderful Life, The Grinch, and Rudolph whether my guests want to or not.

It's now 1:11 am, and I just wanted to say: Merry Christmas everyone. Or, happy federally-sanctioned-religous-holiday-that-you-get-to-have-off-when-nothing-is-open day. Whichever you celebrate.

I Heart Everyone

If the Internet could hug me, my ribs would be, like, so totally crushed to jelly right now.

You guys are all awesome and so totally rock. What a powerfully supportive bunch of people you all are. You made me feel so much better.

It helped to see my therapist last night too, although I think I tired her out. When I get super raw, I become super angry, and I project out a lot of sullen, seething rage. She looked weary after my hour with her.

She had several interesting things to say, however.

She told me to practice self-comforting when I’m thinking about eating more (since I eat for comfort). To wrap myself in a big blanket (she had no helpful suggestions about what to do with the giant pitbull that believes that the couch throw is his blanket, and who the hell am I to think that I can use it) or go get Charlie to hold me for a few minutes (Sarah brilliantly said to me, “So, um, what do you do at work?” Bitch).

I’ve tried a million different things to stop myself from having “just one more bite.” I’ve called people, I’ve prayed, I’ve poured dish detergent all over whatever it was I wanted to eat. But I’ve never tried to give myself comfort instead (and all around the world, the sound of me slapping my forehead and yelling, “DOH!” ala Homer Simpson can be heard). It will be interesting to put into practice.

She suggested that I also get back in the practice of meditation. But that is a whole other post for another day.

But the most interesting thing she told me is to try to move away from the “addiction” model of treating my problems with food. She says that is not a sustainable treatment method (pointing out, gently, my obvious lack of success on that front after seven years of trying).

While I was drinking, I thought I was crazy. Seriously insane. Thoughts spun through my head like a Nascar raceway, I couldn’t sleep, and I was consumed with guilt, anger, shame, resentment, and fear. I thought I was certifiably whacko. I also thought I was a very, very bad person—because I was a thief, a liar, a slut, a terrible friend, and much, much more.

So imagine my incredible relief, when I got into recovery, to discover that all of the above was part of being an alcoholic. It wasn’t my fault and I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t a bad person trying to be good, I was a sick person that needed to get well. I had a disease, and if I did the things they told me to do, I would get better and go into remission.

I did get better. I stopped lying, I stopped stealing, and I learned how to be a good friend (Charlie still calls me a slut sometimes, you know, for old times sake). So it makes sense that when I had a couple of years sober and decided to address my issues with food that I would approach it from the same place.

Alcoholics in recovery believe that when we drink alcohol, any at all, it triggers what a psychologist called “the phenomena of craving.” Meaning that once alcohol enters our systems, the switch is flipped, and we won’t stop until we pass out or die (or the money runs out—oh, what a horrible thing to have happen when you’re a drunk). This is why you’ll hear recovering alcoholics say, “It's the first drink that gets you drunk” (which seemed illogical in the extreme, when I first got sober, because I was pretty sure it was the ninth or tenth drink that did me in), and why we recovering alcoholics believe that it’s impossible for us to “just have a glass of wine with dinner.”

So if you translate that theory to food, well…it doesn’t quite fit, right? If you are a living creature on this planet, you must eat to live. So you can’t prevent triggering “the phenomena of craving” by not eating all. So how do you do it? By just eliminating specific foods or eating behaviors.

One of the recovery models I’ve tried believes that sugar and flour trigger compulsive overeating. So don’t eat sugar or flour, and you’ll be fine. Right? Maybe. But, as my therapist said, it’s not sustainable. No more birthday cake? No premenstrual chocolate? No bread, like, ever? One day at a time my ass. There are other models, like following a specific diet (grey sheet abstinence, anyone?), eating only three times a day, etc. There are as many options as there are people, frankly.

I’m mulling it over. Intellectually, I know she’s right. But the grace of believing I’m a food addict is that it absolves me of guilt and shame—again, I’m not bad or weak, I’m sick.

Her thinking is that it’s all about balance. The bane of my existence is searching for fucking BALANCE. She fully believes that we can change my behavior and I will learn to luxuriate in what I eat (of course, I thought that was what I was doing. Hmmm), instead of imbuing it with all this other shit like shame and self-loathing.

This is all hard for me to process as I prepare my list for tonight’s shopping trip for the beautiful gluttony that is Christmas dinner at my house. Eight pounds of butter? Check. Three kinds of sugar? Check. Several starches? Check. 25 lbs of various meats? Check. Yee-ha!

Oh Happy Day--NOT

It came back to me today--the sadness, the hopelessness, all of it. I thought I was fine; after the nightmare at the doctor’s office yesterday, I enjoyed the rest of my day. Went to my meeting, met up with good friends who helped us celebrate.

But I should have known all was not quite well this week when I couldn’t make myself go to the gym on Monday, and then I ate some Pringles and Jelly Belly’s (it was just the little snack size of Pringles, but still) instead. And then there was the outburst of tears at the doctor’s office.

Then today I forgot my gym clothes at home, and considered just skipping it again. But I called Charlie and he brought them to me, so I no longer had that excuse.

But then the student that was working with me offered to get Falafel from the really good cart, so of course I agreed. Then I couldn’t go to the gym because I’d just eaten, so I decided to read blogs instead.

There is so much happy news in infertile blogland these days, although there are still many scary hurdles for people to cross. Reading about Julie’s scare with Charlie nearly did me in; the photo of Charlie taking his first-bottle-ever really did do me in.

I couldn’t be happier for her—although I wish she wasn’t dealing with a premature son and the nightmare of the NICU—but god damn it, it’s just so fucking hard.

So fucking hard.

Now that I’m healing--and I am healing--my pain comes out sideways. For a while after reading everyone’s updates, I seriously considered just hiding behind a novel and letting my student deal with the customers today (novels are a great place to hide—and the fabulous Pam sent me some more good ones—thanks Pam!). But I didn’t. I dragged my sorry ass to the gym.

And it sucked.

I did exactly the same workout I did last Friday. On Friday, I felt awesome—energized, hopeful, proud.

Today I felt fat. Stupid. Hideous. Pathetic.

I did my workout with all the enthusiasm someone on death row exhibits as they walk to the electric chair. I stared at my flabby body in the mirrors with disgust. I weighed myself and found, to my joy, that I’d gained four pounds. The whole time I was working out I said to myself, “Of course you gained. You ate mozzarella sticks. And chocolate bread pudding.” Not a particularly effective affirmation.

Last week my therapist asked me why I wanted to lose weight and get back to monitoring my eating so soon after losing my boys. “What’s your hurry?” she said.

Part of my hurry is my natural tendency to want to just get down to business. My head says, “OK! Well, you lost those kiddos. Time to move on, get back in shape, lose the weight and then we’ll try again. Ready? Hut, two three, hut two three…” I’ve gotten frustrated with myself in this last eight weeks (it’s only been! eight! weeks!) because when I get sad or angry, there is no doubt that popcorn and chocolate help. But that “down to business” part of myself gets disgusted when I indulge.

The other thing, the thing I don’t think I realized clearly until today, is that when I eat badly (for more than one meal—I can always forgive one meal), I feel like fucking shit. And because my grief is coming out all ass-backwards, instead of feeling sad about the loss of my sons, I start in with the bad body image and the self hatred (even typing that I find myself thinking “Dude, you don’t have a bad body image, you have a bad fucking body!).

The most frustrating thing about all of this shit it that when I feel bad about overeating, what do I want to do most? EAT! I want to eat fucking everything! If the Trojan Horse rolled up right now, I’d gnaw it down to toothpicks.

Fuck.

Good thing I have therapy in about two hours, huh?

Sarah just called to see if I was ok and I couldn't even talk to her. Ug. I hate it when I get like that-- un-cheer-upable.

Maybe this is all hormonal, again and still. Tell me—those of you who’ve miscarried, had D & C’s or D & E’s—how long did it take before you got your first period? Cause today is eight weeks. And it’s nowhere in sight.

I just know it’s going to come on the cruise. Bastard.

Blood, Insurance, and other misadventures

So the next anniversary I’ll be celebrating is…

Just kidding! I’m done with anniversaries for a while.

Thanks for all the lovely responses to my sobriety saga—it’s deeply ironic that so many people find a fat, infertile, washed-up drunk so inspirational. I guess it’s hard to see when you’re the drunk. I mean, I'm moved by the struggles of  Grrl, Julie, and Tertia not to mention my best friend Sarah who got sober while raising an infant. I mean, come on. That’s inspiring!

But still, I was riding the crest of everyone’s kind words as I headed to the OB’s office today for some follow-up blood work. I had a 10 am appointment for said blood work, so I figured I wouldn’t be there for too long. Right?

Ah, and the universe laughed.

At 10:30, I told them I needed to be at work at 11. They said someone would call me back soon. At 11:00, they finally called me back, sat me in the chair, looked at my chart and decided they didn’t know what the doctor wanted. So they sent me back to the waiting room. At 11:20, they came out and told me that their lab couldn’t draw my blood because my insurance wouldn’t cover it. I’d have to take their paper work to another lab.

Now, this issue had come up when I scheduled the appointment. They verified my insurance coverage and told me that it would be fine. I told the staff this, and said, after all, only an idiot would schedule herself to get blood taken by a lab that wouldn’t be covered by her plan. They firmly insisted that I couldn’t get my blood taken today.

At this point, I totally lost it. I’d been sitting in the lobby absolutely surrounded by pregnant women and babies for nearly an hour and half at this point, and I went into hysterical mode. I burst into tears after yelling at the receptionists about how hard it was for me to be there after losing my babies a mere eight weeks ago, and went into the hallway for a few minutes. Meanwhile, the receptionist decided to call my insurance company again (while insisting, of course, that it wasn’t her job).

After another ten minutes, the insurance company told the receptionist that I was NOT covered. She, wisely, asked them to explain that to me. So I got on the phone.

The nice Aetna lady said, “Ma’am, you need to go to a lab capitated [wtf??] by your general practitioner’s office.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t. I have the Choice option on my plan. That says I can go to any lab.”

“Yes.” She said, “But you need to meet your deductible first.”

I looked at the phone, “Are you looking at my records? I met my deductible back in MARCH.”

“Well,” She said, “I’m looking at the details of your plan…”

“You aren’t looking at my records???” I said, incredulously.

“I can look it up, but you’ll have to hold.” She said.

“Yes,” I said, “Do that.”

A few minutes later a manager comes on and tells me they are still researching it and can I please hold for another minute or two.

“Ma’am,” says the manager, “You are covered for any lab. We are sorry for the confusion.”

“Can you please tell the staff here that?” I ask. What I wanted to say, of course, was “Yeah, I fucking KNOW!”

“Of course.”

The receptionist and the office manager, who had looked quite annoyed before, now looked a tad chagrined. And, finally, they acknowledged that this should have been addressed at, oh, 10:10 or sometime around the time of MY FUCKING APPOINTMENT.

Sigh.

Usually, in these situations, I ask myself if I’d rather be happy or I’d rather be right.

Today, I needed to be right.

So now my 611,916,513 vials of blood will go off to be tested for obscure clotting disorders, among other things, that could have contributed to the loss of the first of my sons (the one that died a week or so before the preeclampsia became severe). I have no idea when I will know the results.

The only positive light in this whole debacle was a visit from the fabulous Dr. Mama while my blood was being drawn (oh—and the wonderful lab tech who took my blood painlessly and quickly). He had witnessed some of the drama in the lobby and was glad to see that it had been resolved. He told me he’d seen a mutual friend, who showed him this blog. I said, “I’m glad I only said wonderful things about you in there!” And he laughed, and told me that she showed him the whole Holly controversy (oh—Holly—I know where you live, and I feel even more sorry for you now).

This sweet doctor, one of only three in my entire city that still performs intact dilations & extractions, said, “I couldn’t believe it! What an evil woman! Who does she think she is, telling you how to live your life? She’s obviously never faced anything like this, and has no idea what you were dealing with. She was just ignorant. Some people just don’t know when to quit.”

Is it any wonder that I love this man?

The Business of Sobriety

My life was a mess nine years ago.

The holiday season for me back in 1995 was mostly about trying not to die while I was working overtime trying to kill myself.

Some highlights from that time include:

-Going to my 10^th High School Reunion while I was so, so, so sick from drugs I was bleeding out the ass, throwing up blood, having bloody noses…just bleeding from every place I could. I actually got on a plane and flew to Michigan in that state. Smart cookie, I was.

-Being fired from my job as a veterinary technician. Well, sort of. My boss was not terribly good at confrontation, so he just called and told me “to not come in for a while.” I loved that job more than anything, back in the days when I cared about things, but by then mostly I was pissed because it meant I lost a supply source.

-I got a job at my neighbor’s balloon store. For $5 an hour, I sold balloons. Yeah. Until they fired me too.

-I missed Thanksgiving dinner because I was too sick to get off the couch (but I wasn’t too sick to get in touch with my dealer).

-We didn’t have any heat, so we heated the house with the stove, running the shower, and space heaters.

What a fun time!

Then, of course, on December 21, I was working my way through a big pile of my drug-of-the-moment when I suddenly fell over (I was actually searching for a space heater at the time) and had a ten-minute Grand Mall seizure. Followed by a twenty-minute loss of consciousness. With difficulty breathing.

I awoke staring up into the faces of two paramedics, two cops, and all of my neighbors. Oh, and I was lying on the floor naked beneath an open bathrobe. I got into the ambulance in said bathrobe, after donning my cowboy boots (the robe was purple, by the way. Black cowboy boots. Can you picture it?).

In the emergency room, I denied using drugs, but let them run a drug test anyway. While I awaited the results (I thought I might be surprised, I guess) I remember realizing that it had to end. But I didn’t know how to stop (even though I’d already been going to meetings).

When they finally let Charlie come back (he was sitting out there afraid I’d died—sorry, love), he just looked at me and said it was over. We were done. Tomorrow we’d go to a meeting. I just let out a sigh, the biggest sigh I’ve ever sighed, and said YES.

It’s amazing how soon it turned around. We stopped running out of heat. We started paying bills. I got a job. He got better at his job. We got new friends. We learned who we really were. We got married the following October (a sober wedding). Sarah and her daughter came back into our life. We got a car. We began hiking. We camped. We got even more new friends. He lost a job, got another one, and then lost that one. I got a better job, then an even better one. We started trying to have babies. And you all know the rest.

I’m glad, believe it or not, that this is my life. I don’t regret a minute of my past; it’s made me who I am. But I’m so glad that my life is mine now, that I’m not a slave to drugs and alcohol. Thank god, and thanks to all the friends of Bill that helped me get here.

Tomorrow I’ll celebrate nine years sober.

It’s a wonderful life.

Love Abounds

Today is our other anniversary. We have four—our wedding anniversary, obviously, the anniversary of when we fell in love, our sobriety anniversary, and this one.

Charlie and I fell in love in mid-November but waited until he, er, left his wife before we actually consummated our relationship (we had some standards, you know). So, twelve years ago today, we were able to fully express our love for each other.

OK, OK, that sounds overly dramatic but it really is true. That first night, we were nearly as nervous as virgins when we met up. We went to a poetry reading (why, oh god, why did we torment ourselves that way) and then had a few beers. We finally couldn’t stand it any longer and went to my apartment where Charlie got to meet my dog Misty for the first time. I scared him a little by telling him if Misty didn’t like him, then he couldn’t stay (she was a much better judge of men than I was). He wasn’t a dog person back then, so he was nervous. He didn’t need to worry—Misty adored him on sight.

That night, in my bed, I knew it was over. That the whole mess of my life—as far as men went—was over. I no longer had to be afraid. Charlie was it. The perfect one; the love of my life. It didn’t mean that we didn’t struggle over the next few years; I told him, each time we had a fight, to leave (and he refused). After four years together we got sober. Then we got married. Then his mother got very sick, and my mother went crazy. Then, of course, we struggled with infertility, and discovered how strong our marriage really is.

Then we lost our sons.

In these last two months, as we’ve grieved and raged against the universe, one thing has stood out: we are so unbelievably blessed to have each other. We are lucky in love, and while pain is pain, love is love—and we have love to spare.

Today is the perfect ending to a good week. I’ve been feeling better this week—the sadness is ever present, but hope is creeping back in. We are only a few days shy of the winter solstice, and that means that from then on we get one minute more of sunlight each day until a new glorious spring arrives. With spring come new beginnings, new chances, and new dreams. We will be parents. And I think that journey will begin for us next year.

And now, for some reason, I feel like channeling Tiny Tim—so—

God Bless Us, Everyone.