I thought about putting an inspirational infertility quote here, but instead I'll share that once I got out of a moving vehicle while on Clomid. I was hormonal, enraged and hulking out. I was a lurched animal in a cage.  Once I escaped, I walked for blocks while my husband slowly drove next to me. Eventually I cried it out, calmed down, and finally got back in the car. He never mentioned it again.

Did you miss me? (Say yes, I can't handle rejection right now.)

So I haven’t posted since freaking November 13. My house has been under attack by every single virus and cold that has blown through Mickey’s daycare. Mickey brings it home, gets sick, then it quickly spreads to myself and Michael.

So we’ve been quarantined to our house almost everyday and losing our freaking minds. If I watch Elmo in Grouchland one more time, I might just combust.

On a brighter note, I AM DONE WITH PROGESTERONE AND ESTROGEN!! Yes. That’s right. I am no longer shoving estrogen up my hoo-ha and there are no more shots in my ass. My last injection of progesterone and oil was on Thanksgiving evening.

I was so excited to be done with shots that I even gave it up to my husband. For the first time in four months, we actually had sex. He kept calling it a “Thanksgiving Miracle.”

Unfortunately for him, that was a one-time miracle as of now. I was so confident that my nausea and vomiting would subside as soon as the hormones were done. Nope. Doesn’t look like they’re going to be making an exit anytime soon.

Now, I will say I get a longer period of relief in the afternoons than I did while I was on hormones. But, every morning just like clock work, I’m dry heaving or puking. Then that nausea lasts until about 11:00 am. Then I’m praying to the porcelain gods again around 7:00 pm through the middle of the night.

I had a rather humbling moment yesterday morning. I woke up, gagging. I didn’t even have a chance to pee before I was hunched over the toilet, puking. Well about 10 seconds in, I felt something warm running down my leg. I full-blown peed my pants while throwing up. I don’t mean like “oops I peed a little.” I mean, I peed through my underwear, pajama pants, and onto the floor.

So hot.

A friend of mine asked me last night if I was losing weight from being so sick. Hard no. Don’t worry, despite my close relationship with my toilet, I’m still managing to pack it on. The problem is that the second my stomach isn’t full, the nausea hits. So at this point I’m eating double to ensure an hour or two of relief. Actually, I’m going to go weigh myself right now. I said I’d be completely honest, so I’ll commit.

173 lbs. Ouch.

So yeah, I’ve already put on 20 lbs. this pregnancy. And, I’m only 14 weeks. Not ideal.

I also look like I’m minimum 22 weeks pregnant at this point. I keep catching myself comparing what I look like to other pregnant women. My most recent favorite search on IG is #14weekspregnant. It’s like I’m looking for some validation that it’s okay I’m showing this much already. (As if I have any control over that) And guess what I’ve mostly found? Women having multiples look like me at 14 weeks.

I keep trying to stop, but social media makes it so hard to look away. This is exactly how we wind up in this weird purgatory of never feeling good about ourselves. We constantly compare ourselves to everyone else. It’s so incredibly hard not to, and it’s so fucking unhealthy.

It’s like a sickness. I constantly compare myself to other moms. I compare how beautiful and put together their homes are. How is it that despite how much cleaning and picking up I do, my house will never look as nice as these homes on social media?

I compare myself to other bloggers. My blog is never as good. It’s never as pretty as the blogs other women write. I swear way more than most mom bloggers. I compare myself to how often they post and how many followers they have.

It’s a rabbit hole that’s so easy to fall into. Before you know it, you’re hating on yourself because your life isn’t “Pinterest worthy.” And because you don’t look cute in fucking blush workout leggings. Because it’s a completely realistic expectation to work out in a blush sports bra and blush leggings with zero cellulite or ass sweat showing through.

I remember the worst it’s ever been was after I had Mickey. I would desperately search for posts of any woman on social media who looked like me. I kept finding women who bounced back quickly and looked amazing. I found no women who still looked 12 weeks pregnant, a month postpartum like myself. No one was posting how their bodies had gone to complete shit and they were unrecognizable in the mirror.

Because let’s be honest, few of us are brave enough to share the parts of our bodies we’re insecure about. I’m certainly not strong enough to do that. I’m insanely appreciative for the women who are confident and smart enough to share how they love themselves without comparison. Maybe that will be my resolution for 2019; not just accepting my body, but loving it and appreciating it for all that it does.

But until then, you better believe I’ll be wearing all black, standing at a flattering angle, with fantastic lighting for social media; fully aware that I’m a complete hypocrite.


If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.

Call Hallmark 'cuz the last line should be a new greeting card.