Last night’s birthday dinner at Craigie on Main was probably one of the most incredible dinners I’ve ever had (and one of the most expensive, but totally worth it).

I admit that Larry and I are foodies. This happened sometime during 2005-2007, when we were living in Maryland and surrounded by so many great restaurants in DC. It was also our first apartment together, so we did a lot of experimenting in the kitchen.

Bottom line: we effin’ love good food.

So the new birthday tradition has been to go out to posh restaurants and splurge on the big menu. Last year for my birthday and my newly discovered love of oysters, we went to B&G Oysters. For Larry’s thirtieth birthday this past December, we went to Menton. Seeing as how it’s probably the most premier restaurant in Boston right now, I was nervous how we were going to top that for my birthday last night.

Behold, Craigie on Main – a vastly different experience compared to Menton, but the food matched note for note what Menton had to offer in December. This dinner was so damn good, I had to write about it this morning. This is one of those menues I’m going to relive over and over in my mind.

We splurged for The Ultimate Craigie Experience – an eight-course tasting menu that changes daily and by season. I was a little nervous going for the eight-course menu; my tummy was a little blegh to begin with* (thanks in part to the lovely appearance of Aunt Flo earlier that morning. Lovely timing, period – thanks a bunch!) and I thought perhaps the six-course might be a little more reasonable.

*First piece of wisdom to share as a 30-year old: if your brain says, “You should probably get the six-course menu because we’re pretty sure your stomach will explode if you try to eat eight courses tonight” – listen to it.

“Any dietary restrictions or allergies?” our waitress asked us.

“Nope,” we said. “We’re feeling adventurous and we’re open to anything tonight.”

(Famous last words.)

We sat at the Chef’s Counter, a four-seater granite countertop overlooking the kitchen. We were just a couple of feet away from about a dozen or so cooks furiously pumping out the night’s orders. Have you ever watched Hell’s Kitchen? It was kind of like that, but with less swearing and a fairly seamless cohesion of teamwork between each station.

Our view was closest to the starter station, as two cooks delicately cranked out starter after starter – the pace was frenetic and fast-paced. It was fascinating to watch. Larry and I barely spoke to each other all night as we watched, mesmerized by the controlled madness of the kitchen flurry in front of us.

Our dinner started with a trio of amuse bouche: halibut tartare topped with ikura (salmon roe) and served with a rice cracker; salmon tartare with dill; and house-cured Portuguese sardine topped with caviar. The halibut and roe reminded me so much of the sea; that’s all I could taste in my mouth. The roe, like little orange jewels, popped in my mouth, bursting with a not-overpowering brininess that washed over the creaminess of the halibut. I soon learned the trick was to scoop it up with my rice cracker, a start textural contrast with notes of sesame.

The salmon, Larry noted, “tasted like Sunday mornings.” (Think bagels and lox). The sardine was fishy, like any sardine, but not overly so.

Next up was diver scallop sashimi with yuzu and crystallized ginger and mango cilantro chutney. I love me some raw scallops: they might as well be the butter medallions of the sea. There was some heat on the scallop, I saw tiny red flakes, but not sure exactly what kind of chili they were. The brightness of the mango, the brininess of the scallop and that touch of heat: the whole dish reminded me of a hot summer day on the beach. It was my second favorite dish of the night.

Out came a tempura soft-shelled crab with chorizo oil, sliced chorizo and pinot noir and soy(?) reduction. We quickly learned some of the kitchen lingo as we watched our food being made: “I need four softies!” meant “We have an order of four soft-shelled crabs.” I’ve never had soft-shell crab before and was pleasantly surprised to be able to just eat the whole damn thing.

There’s a Japanese term for the “fifth” taste (besides salty, sweet, bitter and sour) called umami. It’s a savory taste. This dish? Umami at its best.

And then came the kona kampachi kama with sweet chili glaze and garnish of asian pear and daikon. Kona Kampachi is a Hawaiian fish with a flavor and texture profile somewhere between a tuna and skipjack. Kama refers to the cheekbones, which – if you ever go to a Japanese restaurant and see Hamachi (Tuna) or Sake (Salmon) Kama on the menu: order it. Considered a “trash” cut and typically reserved for the kitchen staff, kama is probably the tastiest part of the fish: tender, buttery, flavorful. This dish was so good I was mopping up the sweet chili glaze with my bread.

Then we got to the really rich part of dinner. We were served housemade lentil pasta with pork heart, morel and arugula ragout. I was not expecting to like the pork heart as much as I did: the texture reminded me of meatball, to be honest. Super savory, very rich.

Then we got to the most difficult part of the dinner for me: lamb rib with white asparagus puree and grilled white asparagus strips. I am not a fan of lamb. I just can’t do it. There’s something about the flavor – that gaminess with almost a hoppy aftertaste – I just can’t. I have tried so many times to eat lamb and every time, I can never manage more than a few bites.

Last night was no exception, except that it very nearly ruined the whole dinner.

After the lamb course, I excused myself to the bathroom. I almost tossed up all six courses we had eaten at that point. I literally had to talk myself down from the vasovagal response that I could feel coming over me. Our dinner so far had been super rich, and I knew what was still coming down the pike. When I looked in the mirror, the color had completely drained from my face but the vomit/fainting sensation had passed. I’m pretty sure it was the lamb that triggered this – there’s just certain flavors (raw cucumber is another) that can send me over the edge.

Once I got back to the counter, I was greeted by the head chef himself, with a plate of venison two ways: leg with bok choy and housemade lamb sausage with musrooms and a red beet pomegranate coulis. I much preferred the leg to the sausage and the coulis was such a tart, savory touch to the hearty venison medallion.

We technically had nine courses last night, because we decided at the last minute to get an order of the roasted grass-fed beef bone marrow. It was served with our last savory course (the venison) and Oh. My. Sweet. Merciful. G-d:

Not exactly vegetarian friendly.

Served with toasted country sourdough slices (“I need toast for bones!” shouted across the kitchen)… I literally have no words. It looks gross, I’ll concede that. You scoop out these gelatinous blobs right from the middle of these bones, clear fat just dripping from it. And then you spread these on your toast and holy balls, that shit is amazing.

It was described to us by the waitress as tasting like “beef butter” and while that’s an accurate description of flavor, it doesn’t quite get the sheer insanity of deliciousness that is bone marrow. Like, it was so good I felt like I was rendered stupid while I ate it. The bone marrow wasn’t part of our tasting menu and I’m so glad we ordered it because that stole the whole fucking show for me last night.

Before moving on to desserts, we got a palate cleanser of vermouth gelée with herb granite and white chocolate crumbs. Super bright and reminded me the way the air smells after a spring rain shower. Definitely tasted notes of parsley and celery seed.

For dessert, we got an apricot frangipane torte with pistachio, grains of paradise and amaretto ice cream AND a sour milk panna cotta with cashew-coriander granola, champagne mango coulis and browned butter dust. I don’t do amaretto so Larry and I switched plates and I ate the panne cotta. Normally, we share. Last night, we did not. The panne cotta definitely had the sour character but it was so smooth and laced with vanilla that after a while, you just got lost in the sweet texture of it. The granola added the perfect textural contrast and the browned butter dust just a hint of saltiness.

Just when we thought it was all over, out came a tiny glass of white asparagus ice cream with rhubarb soup. The tartness of the rhubarb with the mellowness of the ice cream was a perfect end to an insanely good meal.

. . .

Just for shits and giggles, I weighted myself before we left to go out. After we got home, I staggered into the bedroom feeling like a bloated tick and hopped back on the scale.

4.8 pounds gained. I had eaten nearly five pounds of food in a little over 3 hours.

It was totally worth it.

. . .

For those of you wondering what Larry got me for my birthday…

My husband has my taste in jewelry DOWN.

Coulda knocked me over with a feather when I opened the box. WAY better than jeans or linens, for sure.

. . .

Best birthday ever.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. Thought for Food
2. Mindful Thursday: The Most Delicious Cookie Ever

I’m not normally one to get all excited for my birthday, but when it comes to milestone years, I get as giddy as a school girl. The Facebook and Twitter messages today have been overwhelmingly awesome. The flowers my parents sent me? A lovely surprise at my door this morning.

I am eatin’ it up for the big three-oh.

It’s very easy for me to get very selfish and proclaim “me me me!” for my birthday, but I want to take a few minutes to remember that as all-encompassing as turning thirty feels right now, I’m just one woman in a very great big world. So, in honor of entering my “Dirty Thirties” (mad props to my friend, fellow Gemini and wife of a Mason, Mel Walters for teaching me this phrase), I want to recognize and honor thirty moments of gratitude in my life, in this moment right now.

Keiko’s 30 Moments of Gratitude

I am deeply grateful for…

1. My soulmate, my partner-in-crime, my fellow adventurer: Larry. When we took that stroll to the Salem Lighthouse last night and your alarm went off at midnight – and then you pulled a birthday card out of your pocket at that exact moment – I felt as loved as the moment of our first kiss. After 15 years, not much as changed when it comes to how stupidly in love I am with you. I’m so grateful for your optimism, your work ethic, your hot bod, and just how much you take care of and look out for me, no matter what.
2. My mom, Debbie. There’s that whole “giving birth to me” thing but also just how amazing of a woman and role model you are and have been to me my whole life. I know I was a totally bratty kid sometimes (Keiko, don’t be a heathen!) and probably even more of a handful as a teenager, but I have learned so much from you. Whether it’s channeling my emotions through the joys of cooking salmon patties, to always having a love of learning, to knowing when to stand up for myself – I have you to thank for teaching me such valuable life lessons about what it means to be a strong woman, wife, mother, sister and daughter.
3. My dad, Akira. It’s only in the last 5 years I feel like I can finally appreciate everything from when I was young. I know we didn’t necessarily get each other: I was a total spazz. I bucked at just about everything you tried to teach or show me, but now that I’m (finally) an adult, I’ve come to appreciate all of those things so much more. From NPR and KYW news radio, to all the Kitaro and Fresh Aire CDs you made me listen to – to all the foreign films you’d introduce me to over the years – you challenged me to embrace culture of all types. Your travels inspired me to see the world as you have (okay, maybe not Libya… we’ll skip that one) and through your photography, I’ve come to appreciate the littlest, most beautiful things most others would overlook.
4. My sister, Jasmine. I’ve learned so much from you over the years and I look up to you so much. So much of my middle and high school years were influenced by everything you were doing. I did all that stuff because I wanted to be like my cool older sister. I have you to thank for my love of all things nerdy, sci-fi, and off the beaten path. You’ve taught me that when you walk off that path from everyone else, you can find amazingly awesome things that no one else appreciates. We might be city mouse, country mouse – but I’m so grateful for all the things you’ve taught me and for all the cool older sister wisdom you’ve yet to impart.
5. Every one of my in-laws. I hate using that term, “in-law.” You’ve never been this alternative family only affiliated by marriage. You’ve never been a “second” family – you’re each just this extra set of parents and a sister as much as my own blood. You’ve always been incredibly supportive of everything that Larry and I have done together, and that’s meant so much to me.
6. Natalie, my honey bee. Wise Woman. Healer. Warrior. Red Tent Goddess. Teacher. Sage. Grower of anything she plants in the ground. Kindred Spirit. Magick Maven. Priestess.
7. Each and every one of you who reads this blog. Seriously, to know that people really and truly care about what I have to say – it means a lot. Whether you comment or not, just knowing that I have this huge network of people rooting for me and our journey towards parenthood… it keeps me going.
8. All of the professional colleagues I have met as a result of this blog (there are genuinely too many to name). I am humbled by the good work that’s being done out there for this community.
9. Fellow ALI bloggers who I need to shoutout by name: Kymberli, Mel, Lori, Esperanza, Jessica, Kathy, Justine, Suzy, Gil, and Sonya. You ladies just rock and your support means so much.
10. All five of my amazing senses that allow me to experience this amazing world.
11. The places I’ve lived, the places I’ve visited, the placed I dream about going.
12. Living where I do: from my old haunted house to my tight-knit city to my progressive state to this country that affords more freedoms than most, no matter how much the government may frustrate me sometimes.
13. My health. I might have a busted thyroid and be a bit baby-making challenged, but all in all: I can walk, I can breathe, I can talk. I’m still going strong.
14. My cats. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to be that adorable.
15. Flowers in bloom.
16. Starlit nights, crescent moons and twilight.
17. The roof over my head, the food in my belly, the clothes on my back, the love I’m surrounded by.
18. Art and freedom of expression, whether or not I might agree.
19. Shabbos candles, the Sh’ma and Evan’s Deli in Marblehead.
20. Technology. Seriously, how did we live without smartphones again?
21. Breath. It fills me. It calms me. It fuels me forward. It prepares me. It awakens me.
22. Okay, this one’s kind of selfish: that my birthday fell on the Friday of a long holiday weekend.
23. I know I’m grateful for all of my senses, but I particularly feel the need to call out my sight. This world is a wondrous one to behold. I don’t want to miss seeing any of it.
24. Anyone who makes the brave choice to fight for their country. I’m not that brave.
25. Music. All of it. Yes, even Skrillex.
26. Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. Or, as I like to call it, my Busy Day Go Juice.
27. Every person who’s ever spared one moment, one good thought for me.
28. Thirty awesome years so far…
29. …and the many to come.
30. This moment.

And 1 Big Birthday Wish

Y’all know it’s bad luck to say that wish out loud… but I know every one of you knows what my 30th birthday wish is this year.

"I wish..."

Have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend: safe travels, mild traffic, lots of sun, delicious barbecues.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. Happy Birthday to Me
2. A Celebratory 28th Birthday Post
3. Happy Birthday to My Favorite Niece

In just a few hours, I turn 30.

I will spend this evening most likely doing a load of laundry, cleaning the kitchen, and changing the cats’ litter. We’re having leftovers for dinner. I might even have a beer.

I know, I know – livin’ the wild life over here.

. . .

Tomorrow night, Larry’s taking me to Craigie on Main. We’re sitting at the Chef’s Counter and splurging for the tasting menu. He told me today that my birthday gift has arrived on time and I’ll be getting it at dinner tomorrow.

My current birthday wishlist includes:

• Two new pairs of jeans from Fashion Bug (because seriously, these are the only jeans that fit my stumpy legs and generous derriere)
• Linens for the bedroom (and/or a weekend and carte blanche bankroll to shop at IKEA)
• A natal chart reading

That’s it. No jewelry, no books, no concert tickets. Just jeans, linens, and an astrological reading.

Larry tells me I will receive none of these things from him. I’m not complaining. Rather, I’m intrigued. Although, with a lame birthday wishlist like mine, I pretty much have left the field wide open on birthday gifts.

“It had to be customized,” he told me.

Color me even more intrigued.

. . .

This is me at 20, a sophomore in college.

Larry took me to dinner for my birthday then, too. We went to Ortlieb’s Jazz Haus in Philly, which I was saddened to learn last year has since closed. We both got dressed up for an amazing night on the town, a preview of what much of my late twenties have been like.

When I turned 25, I got an air conditioner for my birthday. We had just moved up to Massachusetts the day prior. It was ungodly hot. We were living on our own in a brand new state. A countdown clock was ticking for me to find a job as Larry started his first full-time job outside of school. I was a little disappointed in the lack of fanfare for what I saw as a milestone birthday, but it was overshadowed by our epic move from Maryland to Massachusetts.

And here I am, on the eve of 30. On the precipice of “youth” and “okay, seriously, you have a mortgage now, so maybe you can finally consider yourself an adult already”.

. . .

When we got married four and a half years ago, I wanted to be pregnant by my 30th birthday.

. . .

In my early twenties, I felt myself going from such a focused idea of what I wanted to be in my life at that time, to suddenly feeling the blinders come off and having my eyes open to a world of other possibilities. When I went to college, I assumed I’d graduate a vocal performance major – with her teaching degree, of course – I’d teach to fill in the gaps when I wasn’t a world-class opera star. I came out, however, committed to pursuing a career in Student Affairs in higher education.

A lot of it was the result of some deep soul-searching and really coming into my own during college. As graduation day marched closer and closer, I realized that I felt kind of lost, wondering just what the hell I was going to do as a newly switched from Music to Communications Major. I latched on to Student Affairs because I was an RA, and my world was colored by the work I did in the residence halls.

It made sense at the time.

Seven years later, I left the field. I have no intentions of returning to higher ed.

I find myself in that same frame of mind when I was 22 years old, wondering what’s next, feeling the heat from things like Turning Thirty and Eventual Parenthood looming on the horizon.

In my late twenties, my last decade has been bookended by some deep soul-searching and coming into my own, largely as a result of finding out I have POF. It shook a lot of what I assumed about myself – and the kind of life I would make for myself – to the core. Suddenly, I find such use in a Communications degree using technology that didn’t even exist at the time I earned my degree by finding my voice in social media and blogging.

When I started my senior year of college, I distinctly remember thinking, “I have no idea what I want to do when I graduate. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

Even now, as a (struggling) freelancer and part-timer for an NPO, I still don’t know.

The only thing that’s come into focus since 2009 is that g-ddamnit: I want to be a mom. It fills so much head and heart space within me that I worry I’m blocking out other parts of myself that would otherwise flourish.

. . .

This song has been on loop in my head this past week:

Tonight
We are young
So let’s set the world on fire
We can grow brighter
Than the sun

. . .

Keiko, on the eve of her "Dirty Thirties"

“Married with kids,” I probably would have said. “Living in a city.”

Having lived for 3 months in the heart of Boston, I laugh now at that sentiment. I hate living in the city. I’ll take an urbanized area with houses, please (which is why I love Salem so much).

My prediction for 40?

“Married with kids.”

Some things never change.

. . .

I think I will have that beer after all.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. Gearing Up for Night of Hope
2. I’m a Night of Hope Award winner!
3. Video Clip: Night of Hope

 
When I made my “What IF” video two years ago, I included this question:

What if I can’t counter the thought I had to “buy” a baby?

To this day, that question still eats at me. I’m not sure what bothers me more: how much we’ll have to pay all told, or the fact that I have to pay anything at all for something that comes “free” to so many others.

I hate that I have to question any of this. I feel like it makes me sound like The Bitter Infertile Lady. Fact is, I’m not. I’m just another 1 in 8 who would do anything to have children of her own and/or without assistance, and can’t.

Image by Keiko Zoll via Morguefile

Did you see the NYT Motherlode column on crowdfunding infertility treatments this weekend? I did. And then I saw Jezebel’s take on that column… and wished I hadn’t.

From Jezebel:

It’s more that being asked to fund someone else’s fertility treatment feels a little bit, well, annoying—like being asked to give money instead of gifts at a wedding. I think it’s because IVF seems so entirely optional and personal. While chipping in to someone’s adoption can be seen as an altruistic act, paying for a friend’s IVF seems closer on the spectrum to being asked to help pay for a chin implant to help make their dream of not hating their face a reality.

I find it interesting that the article’s author takes the time to distinguish between funding adoption versus funding treatment – even though they are both means to the same end – yet places a higher moral value on funding adoptions. The author reinforces the same trope about fertility treatments: “optional and personal.”

It’s her characterization of comparing IVF to plastic surgery that’s really the one-two punch in the gut.

I’m amazed that the author fails to use the word “selfish” at any point in her argument – that’s usually the next logical step when opening up the “fertility treatments are optional” doors. But she does round out the article with this little gem:

…if we pay to help create a baby via IVF do we then somehow have a stake in its future—as though we invested in a tiny, squeezably cute company?

(She’s using this in reference to sites like IndieGoGo and Kickstarter, whose sole purpose is to create mini-rounds of localized venture capital backing, without all the rigamarole of actually going through VCs.) What’s even more amazing is that she still reinforces the ideas of baby as commodity and fertility treatments as elective, even with this clever little dig at couples just trying to build their families.

Because through her lens, it’s not about building a family – it’s about funding a product.

. . .

Before my husband joined the Masons, I always thought of Masonic Lodges, Moose Lodges, Elk Lodges – all these lodges – as places where the community came together for potlucks to raise money for something or someone in the community. That, and school functions outside of school that needed to be held somewhere cheap when the School Board couldn’t afford the local banquet hall.

I remember growing up and hearing about benefits for so-and-so in the community: they might have been sick or lost a job, or worse, a head family member passed away and it was a benefit for the children. We didn’t get invitations in the mail; it was all usually word-of-mouth:

“Hey, Jimmy’s family is having a benefit for his kid with leukemia at the Elks Lodge in Somerdale. There’s even a 50/50 raffle and his wife’s makin’ those meatballs. You should come.”

My husband even went to a benefit for his barber a few weeks ago, a prominent member of the Salem community.

Crowdfunding- virtual or otherwise- it’s just what people do. It’s how a community comes together to support one another in times of great need.

But suddenly, to take the same banquet hall benefit model and utilize the power of social media and viral marketing to do the same exact thing online – and to do that to fund your chance to build your family…

Now it’s “annoying.”

I think it’s progressive, personally.

. . .

Nobody ever wants to ask for a handout.

I still remember the first time I had to ask my parents for rent money. I wasn’t even six months out of college. Larry’s poverty-level graduate assistant stipend wasn’t cutting it. I was barely making minimum wage at a temp job. Our rent was due and we just didn’t have it.

I called my mom and remember feeling just mortified.

I’m lucky to have parents that can support me in times of need like that. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d need to ask my parents for money and every time feels just as awkward. Which is why, as I get older and should seemingly be more fiscally responsible, I try not to do it.

Knowing that we still need additional financial help to build our family feels just as mortifying, even with all of the breaks we’re getting with insurance and having a gracious, generous friend as our egg donor.

. . .

“You should never ask anyone how much money they make,” They Say. “Talking about money is taboo, verboten, tacky.”

I hate talking about money.

But I’ll lay this out there, because I think it’s fair to see just how our fertility finances stack up.

The IVF procedure itself: retrieval and transfer – are covered by my insurance. Our egg donor’s testing is not. Her meds will be covered under my prescription plan, but we’ll have a prescription co-pay that will most likely be up to $500 per med because there are no generics when it comes to fertility drugs. We’ll also have deductibles for the procedures as well (like my hysteroscopy), as much as $1000 a pop. We’re already paying $500 for our mental health evaluations alone. Plus there’s legal fees, other blood tests and diagnostics, and G-dwilling, cryopreservation of excess embryos.

All told, we’re looking at about $6,000-8,000 out of pocket for our cycle this summer.

I know how extremely blessed we are, because that is a drop in a bucket compared to folks undergoing treatment without insurance. However, what’s not factored into this: the amount we pay in insurance premiums because I’m the subscriber in our house. That’s right, me the freelance writer and social media consultant, who pays $850 a month in health insurance premiums. That’s over $10,000 annually just in insurance payments.

And we’re also not adding in our daily prescriptions, all of which as just as vital to our IVF cycle being a success because, hey – we have to be healthy too. That’s another $500-600 a year.

We do not have that much in savings. And there’s no refill system in place once we blow through that money.

This one chance to build our family will wipe out our savings.

. . .

$6-8K is chump change, really. Yesterday, I asked the following on my Facebook Page:

Let’s talk taboo this morning… how much has your infertility journey cost you in dollars Treatments, medications, homestudies – let’s see it in numbers.

I really didn’t think anyone would respond, because talking about money is icky. Boy, was I wrong: 34 comments, 1 like and 1 share.

In my very unscientific sample, here’s how much these 34 commenters have spent to build their families so far:

$1,103,564.

No, I didn’t add an extra comma. I almost don’t even know how to respond to that number: over a million dollars spent in fertility treatments and adoptions. That’s comes out to about $32,400 out-of-pocket per commenter.

My wedding didn’t even cost that much. We’ve never paid for a car that’s cost that much. My total student loans are less than that.

And from what I could tell, of those 34 commenters, only 10 have children.

. . .

There are financial resources out there. Grants are available. Some clinics participate in cost-sharing and financing programs.

Still, when you see a sample of just 34 people with a grand total of 1.1 million dollars in family building expenses, you wonder just how much can that help?

And that’s where crowdfunding comes in, despite Jezebel’s objections.

I’m not here to play Miss Manners. I’m not here to cast judgement on one family building option over another.

I just want to be a mom.

I just want to make my husband a dad. And for us and the 7.3 million other people trying to do the same thing here in America – it’s going to cost us a lot, financially and relative to our household income.

Let’s face it: there’s no such thing as a “free” baby, right? Babies are stupid expensive. But for anyone facing infertility, we already start at a disadvantage by having to pay (substantially) for something that otherwise comes “free” to others.

And let’s not forget: this is all a high stakes, high roller gamble. We’re not buying a baby.

We’re buying a chance.

I use positive language as much as I can as we get ready for our cycle this August. I try not to say “if the cycle works” or “if I get pregnant” but rather “when this cycle works” and “when I’m pregnant.” But the fact of the matter is: no matter how much money we throw into my reproductive system, we have no way to guarantee that this will work.

You can see why I channel hope like it’s my fucking job…

I have to in the face of such daunting numbers.

. . .

I want to talk about money, as much as I hate talking about money.

This is a discussion we need to have and more importantly, that others need to hear. Please weigh in, comment and share.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. Voices of PCOS: Mandie’s Story – Zen and the Art of Baby-Making
2. I’m 0 Weeks and Craving a Baby
3. And Baby Makes Twenty: The Duggars Up the Ante

I was inspired by Jessica’s recent post about re-reading your blog and again by Kathy’s Time Warp Tuesday posts, about this idea of going back and reading through all the words I’ve written over the last few years and seeing how you’ve grown and what you’ve learned. Jessica’s post specifically makes us think about what we learn about ourselves in reading old words.

And then I realized, I’ve been writing about myself for a long time. I may have only been blogging for a little over three years, but I’ve been keeping journals since I was seven years old. And I still have every last one of them.

In a week, I turn 30. In the last week of my twenties, I figured this would be a fun opportunity to crack open these insightful tomes of my youth and see what I can glean about myself over the last 30 years of my life.

For those of you playing along at home, that's 16 journals.

That pink diary on the left? That was my very first journal.

I ordered it through the Book Fair at our school – remember those newsprint flyers from Scholastic, paper so fine that if it was humid it may as well melt and disappear? I lived for those Book Fair flyers when I was a kid. I read books like a champ. So when I saw that adorable little brown bear telling me My Diary was “a special place to doodle and dream” – how could 7-year old Keiko refuse?

I wasn’t exactly a young Dostoyevsky. Or even a moderate Dr. Suess. My very first journal entry – written on April 5, 1990 – instead bitches about a fellow classmate:

As you can see, I experimented early with script writing and marker as media.

I’ve blurred out her name but I can promise you: she’s a fine upstanding woman doing quite well for herself. She’s a nurse and used to model for a time. We were on-again off-again besties during elementary school. Now we’re Facebook friends, meaning, I occasionally read a status from her if it shows up in my feed.

On the opposing page, I talk about having the “flew.” I seem to remember that was the year most of my school had the “flew” and we actually closed school for a couple of days because so many students and teachers were sick. “Don’t give up hope,” I wrote to myself. “I still know my flew will go away.”

And then immediately below that entry, I’m back to bashing that girl again with a self-deprecating twist: “And the prom queen is……. [name redacted]. She’s so pretty! And I’m the one with the nerdy glasses and a dunce cap on my head.”

Lol… what? Was this my first attempt at biting sarcasm?

I am so second-hand embarrassed for myself reading through these journals. Sometimes, I drew fantastically awful sketches, like my Picasso-worthy rendition of “Paris”:

Remember... we'll always have Paris.

Granted, I have a damn good eye for graphic design and have been known to dabble in photography. But between the upside-down fleur de lis, the curly-q backed chair and that monstrosity of a rose… this is just… wow. From looking at this, you wouldn’t know I would develop an eye for art and design later in life.

My gift for poetry wasn’t much better:

It's photos like these I'm thankful for the NoPin tag.

If you can’t read it, here’s a work of staggering poetic genius when I was 13. To make this even more embarrassing, imagine me reading it in this voice:

Protector
From when you were born,
till the day you die.

You walk side by side,
even, when you run.

Balancing your life
with the weights of time.

She will carry you.
She loves you always.

She will protect you.
Guardian angel.

(Funnily enough, I wrote this on January 26, 1995. Thirteen years later, I’d get married that day to someone I wouldn’t meet for another two years. Kind of neat to think about that slice of time in my life as it relates to all the things that have happened after it.)

My middle school journals are perhaps the most embarrassing. I’ll let this speak for itself:

Oh yeah, those are totally pogs taped to the front of my journal. Oh the 90's.

It was 1997. Times were changing, man. Jonathan Larsen was dead, man. So was Princess Di. La vie boheme, and all that, right? I was such a non-conformist, what with my flannel shirts from the Salvation Army, calling myself grunge… when I didn’t even own a single Nirvana album. And yet I ran around singing the soundtrack to RENT like it was my own personal anthem. By today’s standards, you could probably have cast the 15 year old version of myself as a regular on GLEE.

Most of my middle school journals are pages and pages of who my latest crush was at the time. And there were many. I think half the reason I face premature ovarian failure now is because I was trying to burn through an entire life’s worth of estrogen between the ages of 13-16.

These entries were juxtaposed with more tragically bad poetry and pictures from Cosmo and Seventeen Magazine literally cut and pasted into my journals. And stickers. Where the hell did I get so many stickers?

But don’t let my dorky facade fool you:

I was a very well-adjusted teenager.

No, that’s not Larry. And the tale of that ex-boyfriend is a weird one. He’s now married and a successful chef in Australia after spending some time with the Marines or the Navy. I forget. But anyway, at the time this picture was taken, he was 17 and I was 13. Yeah, you read that right. I pretty much haven’t spoken to him since but yanno, Facebook is great for the occasional check-in to see how he’s doing.

No, we’re not Facebook friends. Yes, I still check in on him.

…Actually, I forgot that I’ve written about him before – he’s the one I was supposed to meet in Paris last year.

Once I got to high school, my journal entries got very serious. I didn’t have time to worry about crushes because hello, I was dating my soulmate already at 16. And after we broke up the summer before senior year of high school, those entries got dark.

It’s actually really hard to go back and read those journals from senior year. Larry and I did and said a lot of hurtful things to each other before we got back together in college… and I think played the manipulative bitch card more often than I’m comfortable admitting.

But it’s all there in my journals. My modge-podged journals covered in pogs and Winnie the Pooh and gutwrenchingly bad poetry.

As embarrassing and most times hysterical as they are to leaf through, I’m glad I have them. I stopped keeping journals once I got to college. I discovered LiveJournal and began my ranting online, locked away behind convoluted privacy settings and friend groups. I even got disciplinary action as a Resident Assistant for something I posted on LiveJournal (I had indirectly called a fellow RA a whore – I had linked the word to her LiveJournal profile page). Oh the early days of the internet. You were so carefree then.

I’m glad I still have my LiveJournal available to me as well – it’s in college that I started writing earnestly about my decision to live Jewishly as I progressed towards converting to Judaism, so I’m lucky to have a record of my religious transformation. And it’s full of plenty of embarrassing posts and photos, too.

Having read through these journals of my youth makes me look at this blog with new eyes. Will I look back on this years from now and think, “My G-d, I’m so second-hand embarrassed for myself because I was panicked about the possibility of twins”? Will I look back at the posts that are genuine complaints about living with infertility and think, “Ugh, I was whiney”? There’s no way to know.

But I’m still glad I have them to reflect upon, even if the uncomfortable truth about myself is that yes, I’m a huge dork who was a nearly uncontrollable horny teenager who thought her poetry and drawings were THE BOMB DIGGITY and in fact, they are not.

I guess that’s the cool thing about turning 30 in a week: no matter what all these journals might say about me, no matter what dorky truths they reveal – I’m okay with every one of them at this point.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. What I Sounded Like 17 Years Ago
2. Three Years of Blogging and Meeting Bloggers IRL: It’s Amazeballs.
3. A Post That Only Comes Every 4 Years

A quick post today with some updates on what’s new and groovy in my life.

• I’m recovering well from post-op. Cramping has basically all but gone away (and it was pretty mild to begin with) and now just some very faint bleeding; it could be withdrawal bleeding triggered by the surgery.
• It’s Keiko’s sexy TMI time! Can’t have sex until Thursday. Probably should have better prepared for this because we didn’t um, satiate ourselves before I had surgery last week so I’m running up against nearly a 3-week dry spell. No magic will be happening until I’m done bleeding, either. Have I been on edge lately? A bit.
• I’m nesting… BAD. Apparently once they removed that uterine septum to make it nice and roomy for a future child(ren – because let’s be honest: twins are a scary possibility) I want to fill that space with decorations for my home. Specifically linens. I’m mad for new bed and bath linens right now. G-d help me if you dropped me off at IKEA right now? I’d max out our savings right now. Seriously, my surgery triggered a nesting instinct like whoa.
• Game of Thrones: I’m finally on board. I get it, I get the hype now. Larry explained the first season and the first half of this season to me with the help of 2 recap videos last night, and as someone who’s a devotee of Skyrim and still refuses to continue the main quest to end game – I don’t know why I haven’t been watching this for months now. It’s like, an epic fantasy orgy of awesome (quite literally, actually).
• I have a weird crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. The BBC reboot of Sherlock Holmes is amazing. We’ve been watching it non-stop for the last couple of weeks. On one hand, Benedict Cumberbatch (playing the titular character) is kind of weird-looking. Like, if I passed him on the street, I don’t think I’d pay him much mind. But his portrayal of Sherlock Holmes? HOTT. That’s right, with two T’s. There’s just something about his mannerisms, speech and affectations that make his brainpower incredibly sexy.
• Mad Men is the best show on TV right now. There, I said it. This season has been incredible. Am I biased because it’s understood in our house that John Hamm is my freebie? Totally. But seriously – everything about this season, from Don’s new marriage to even Betty’s seeming maturity to Peggy climbing as hard as she can to the top – oh, and don’t get me started about the new post LDS Roger – he just might be my new favorite character on this show – it’s just so good. I can’t wait to watch it each weekend.
• We’re going to Turks & Caicos in July! My in-laws are celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary in the Turks and Caicos and have invited Larry and I along for the fun. This is huge for several reasons. 1) I have always dreamed of visiting Caicos, the island that is a homonym of my own name. 2) I’m buying a Universal Life Church credential so I can “marry” them again and renew their vows for them Also? It’s the Caribbean. I fucking love the Caribbean.
• I’m building my first online workshop for The Infertility Voice. It’ll be an 8-week online course that I’m getting really excited to announce soon. It’s going to be really neat: discussions, journals, videos – it’s going to have the works and I think will open up a whole new avenue of support and empowerment in the infertility community. Stay tuned for updates!
• I hope to G-d we don’t have a hornets’ nest in our house. I killed one yesterday in our bedroom, after great trepidation and full-on panic attack. There was another one in our skylight on the top floor a couple of weeks ago. Now, I know our house is hella old, but they shouldn’t be getting in like this. Because I swear, if there’s a hornet’s nest somewhere INSIDE my house? I’ll be staying at a hotel until it’s gone. I cannot even put into words how much hornets and wasps terrify me.
• Chocolate and cheese. If I could eat these exclusively as my diet? I totally would. #TRUTH
• Would you like to take a survey? I want to make this website and blog as awesome as possible. I need your help to do that Tell me how it’s been working for you so far and you could win a coaching session with me and more! Click here for the quick 10-minute survey.
• I turn 30 in 10 days. Hubby’s already booked our reservation at Craigie on Main for the evening, at the Chef’s Counter. I cannot wait for this dinner. My birthday wish list is kind of lame (jeans, linens, a natal chart reading) but there’s one thing that always remains constant: takin’ me out to a fancy effin’ dinner. Because if there’s one thing I love, it’s fancy effin’ dinners.

That’s pretty much it up in my world. What’s new with you?

No related posts.

Wishing everyone a wonderful Sunday.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. On the Path to Mother’s Day: Messages of Hope from Across the Bridge
2. Living a Fertile Life in 2012
3. A Confluence of Motherhood This Mother’s Day

Image via Stockvault.net.

I’ve had many different reflections of Mother’s Day over the years. In 2009, right after my diagnosis, it was still too raw. I had a post written where so much is left unsaid in between the words of the post it speaks louder than the post itself. I wrote about this scene so vividly, I still remember how bitter and pained I felt at the time.

In 2010, I took an inspired approach. 2010 was really a year of digging myself out of this infertility funk anyway, so I forged ahead with turning Mother’s Day into Me Day, to celebrate how awesome we all are. Last year, I was harder on myself. As a third Mother’s Day passed me by, I got impatient. I wanted the rest of the world to remember there are millions of us who want nothing more than to be moms.

This will be my fourth – and G-dwilling when (not if!) all goes well with our cycle this summer, my last – without children.

. . .

In the spirit of hope, I turned to some bloggers I deeply respect and admire who’ve made it across the bridge from infertility into motherhood, to send us all some very special messages to those of us – the Someday Moms – still on this side.

Believe me when I say: I know how hard it can be to read these words, to stay positive, to put one foot in front of the other on what feels like an endless bridge to an elusive destination. I see these bloggers, these women – mothers who’ve walked this very bridge – as mountain sherpa, ferrying us across the bridge, no matter how long and high it might be.

They know this path all too well, and I deeply respect and honor the wisdom they can bring to us still walking the path to parenthood and resolution.

“It takes a Village to survive infertility.”

~ Jessica from Too Many Fish to Fry

Jessica is one of the bloggers I got to meet when I went to California in March, and the organizer of the simply beautiful and necessary Faces of ALI project. She’s a sassy firecracker with a gift for words – just check out her latest piece featured on BlogHer. Jessica recently wrote a fired-up post about breaking the mould on Mother’s Day.

Jessica’s message of hope:

“I would emphasize the importance of surrounding yourself with those who understand what you are going through and support you. I went through infertility alone, and I was alone parenting after infertility until I finally met such wonderful people. It was really hard to do either of those things alone.

I know we are a society that values individualism and the nuclear family, but I’m with Hilary Clinton: it takes a Village to survive infertility in any way, shape or form, and no matter how you resolve it: I think you need a village. Luckily, we have a pretty rad village here, in the ALI community.”

“Seek a good, supportive person to take the journey with you.”

~ Kir from The Kir Corner

Kir was recently featured on Listen to Your Mother Show for a special Mother’s Day celebration of writers sharing their stories of motherhood. Kir read a beautiful letter to her twin sons, here now in her life after a winding battle with infertility.

Kir’s message of hope:

“I would encourage any woman to seek a good, supportive person to take the journey with you. I always say that it wasn’t until my mom really ‘came on board’ with me in belief and Hope that the direction of my TTC changed too. I found HOPE in her words, her own hope and complete Faith that I would be a mom someday. The love I received in those moments was the difference in laying on the floor in a ball and doing all I could with what I had to chase my dreams of being a mother.

It doesn’t have to be your mom or a close friend or family, but it has to be someone that gives you the ABSOLUTE UNCONDITIONAL LOVE to keep going, to keep dreaming and when you can’t… they do it for you.”

“Practice patient optimism.”

~ Kathy from Bereaved and Blessed

Kathy is the mastermind behind Time Warp Tuesdays, one of my favorite new blog memes. Her TWT post this week reflects on Mothering and features a really beautiful commentary on how “non-moms” fit into the concept of mothering.

Kathy’s message of hope:

“When I realized which people in my life were willing to be there for me and wanted to hear about my experience, I tried to stop focusing so much on those who were insensitive and less open and able to support me on my journey. I have always struggled with managing my expectations in life and struggling with infertility was no exception. A lot of people in my life let me down, but many more helped to hold me up during the five years that my family and I dealt with secondary infertility, recurrent pregnancy loss and neonatal death.

My brother-in-law (sister’s husband) coined a term that I just love during their wait to adopt their first child. He was making a new year’s resolution the year before they were matched and he said his goal was to approach their wait with ‘patient optimism.’ Isn’t that incredible?! I think it speaks so well to the balance we need to try to maintain when trying to build or expand our families.

I feel incredible blessed and grateful to finally be in a place where I do feel that our situation is mostly resolved. I do hope that those still waiting and in the trenches to build and expand their families can find some hope in that.

However, I also realize that not everyone will ever get the dream they have in mind for their family. They may never be able to bring home a living child and/or may choose at some point to live childfree after infertility; there there a SO MANY different ways that we can and may choose to get to a place where we feel that our infertility struggles have been resolved.”

“Celebrate Mother’s Day from a child’s point of view.”

~ JW Moxie from The Smartness

Y’all know how much I love my favorite gangsta, the great JW Moxie Not only is she an infertility survivor and mom of 4, she’s my go-to gal for all things surrogacy. As a teacher, she’s rockin’ the Teacher Appreciation Week with a much-needed post on the ways teachers should be appreciated as people.

JW’s message of hope:

“When I was in the trenches, on Mother’s Day I would focus more on reflections of *my* mother. I would celebrate Mother’s Day from a child’s point of view, instead of mourning the fact that I didn’t have a child.”

“Cultivate stillness.”

~ Lori from Write Mind, Open Heart

Lori is the soon-to-be-author of The Open-Hearted Way to Adoption, her first book coming out next year. She just celebrated her five-year blogoversary and has an absolutely necessary and empowering post about the outliers in the crowd during Mother’s and Father’s Day.

Lori’s message of hope:

“I believe there is a yin and a yang to resolving infertility. If you are an overachiever like me, you tend to be good at the yang, the masculine, the active, the DOING. And, if you’re like me, you are not so well-acquainted with the yin, the feminine, the receptive, the BEING. It wasn’t until I was able to practice both – doing what I could and allowing the rest to unfold – that things shifted for me.

It’s really hard to do in a time of high-stress and anxiety over your entire future, but if you can cultivate stillness at such a time, you will be all right no matter what.”

“Keep it the size of one day.”

~ Mel from Stirrup Queens

I’m sure y’all know who Mel is, but if you haven’t made it over to the Mother of All ALI Blogrolls, go do that now. Mel is author, mom and infertility community beacon and I’m so honored to share her words of hope for Mother’s Day here in my blog space. Mel’s Mother’s Day advice post is a must-read today.

Mel’s message of hope:

“I would tell people that it’s one day so keep it the size of one day. You don’t have to let Hallmark or restaurants or other retailers dictate how you spend the day. Celebrate your mother if it helps, cry it out if it helps, spend the day watching old House episodes if it helps, go for a long run if it helps: but always remember it is the size of a single day unless you allow it to inflate or deflate in your mind.“

I cannot thank Jessica, Kir, Kathy, JW Moxie, Lori and Mel enough for their messages of hope and inspiration. I wish each of them a wonderful Mother’s Day tomorrow.

And to each of you – to us on this side: we’ll make it, too. A blessed day to you all.

Related posts at The Infertility Voice:

1. Make This Mother’s Day Me Day
2. A Confluence of Motherhood This Mother’s Day
3. Post-Fathers’ Day Confessional

]]>