Who Knew Getting Pregnant Was So Difficult And Why Didn’t You Tell Me

Truth be told, I am quite upset with my baby maker these days. Why is being a woman so difficult? I spent my entire youth trying not to get pregnant, only to be on a desperate baby rampage in my thirties.  Trying to get pregnant is a sensitive subject, I get it, but I am not afraid to speak about it.

Many women keep quiet about the trials and tribulations of getting pregnant, either out of embarrassment, pride, etc, so when difficulties happen with you, YOU start to feel like the problem. Why me? What is wrong with me? How are all these b*tches around me getting pregnant? Why is MY baby maker on strike?  These are my actual thoughts right now as a sit in Starbucks next to some pregnant chick.  B*itch.

Why is hers growing and NOT mine?
Why is hers growing and NOT mine?

The whole ‘trying for a baby‘ process is like a bad dream.   Scratch that, more like a freakin’ nightmare. Each month I jump on the crazy baby train begging to be dropped off in pregnant-ville, yet the a**hole conductor has yet to let me off. So here I am almost a year later holding my first class ticket without my glass of champagne.  This first class is complete rubbish.

When we first started trying, we were told to have sex every day after my period.  Then we were told doing this would only lower sperm counts, so we need to have sex every other day instead.  Then came my thyroid problem, so I was put on medication.  Then I was told my progesterone was low, which explained why my eggs were not able to attach to the uterine wall, resulting in a miscarriage. Next my doctor suggested I quit my job, because the stress was too much. Lastly, she told me I am getting old and only have a certain amount of eggs left.  Awesome!  Defending my eggs I blurted out, But I still feel so young! Women have babies into their forties for Christ sake! I am only thirty -five, just turned thirty-five.”  My sensitive doctor replied, “But you are still thirty-five, let’s call it what it is.” She told me to get ovulation kits and try a couple more months before we had to meet again.

Not happy with your outcome Mr. Smiley!
Not happy with your outcome Mr. Smiley!

Equipped with all this information, I went to CVS to buy ovulation and pregnancy tests.  After I filed bankruptcy from my CVS bill, I downloaded the app, AESOP Fertility. This app tracks my monthly cycle.  It shows a green dot when my eggs are ready, and a red dot when I should be prepared for another month of heartache. Once my cycle starts, I have to rub progesterone cream on my hands nightly.  When the green dot finally shows, it was go time.

My husband doesn’t mind the beginning of ‘go time’, but wants to kill me by the end.  I constantly boss him around, “No, this way.  No, that way!”  After the deed I have to lay with my legs in the air and a pillow under my hips for twenty minutes.  TWENTY MINUTES.  Way to kill the fun. The worst part is when you stand up after those twenty minutes to go to the bathroom. Ladies you know what I am talking about. Vomit. 

The next few weeks are always a blur.  Any little hot flash, dizzy spell, hunger pain, twinge of the uterus I immediately think, I’m pregnant! When the time comes to take a test, it always shows negative.  From there the denial sets in.  Maybe it’s too early.  This test is wrong. I know I am pregnant! Then I take another test, negative again. I wait. A few days later the spotting starts.  Maybe the egg is implanting, I read you spot sometimes during this process. I wait.  The real bleeding starts. I then realize I am not pregnant, I just wasted all that money on those stupid pregnancy tests, and I cry.  I cry because my plan didn’t work. I cry because there is no baby. Finally, I cry because I know next month I will have to do this all over again.

Preg Test

If we don’t get pregnant soon, I have to take a pill which helps you ovulate, however increases your chances of multiples.  Great, just what I needed.  Sorry Kate, but ‘Holly Plus Eight’ doesn’t work for me. If that magic pill doesn’t work, I’ll have to start seeing a fertility specialist. Any specialist scares me.


Everyone always says, “At least you already have your son.” Which is true, but I long for a bigger family and not getting pregnant hurts just as much, regardless of what number kid it is.  Plus, my son needs a sibling to keep him occupied while I write all these blog posts for you ladies!

Please send your good vibes and baby making mantras, as I can’t take many more months of this vicious cycle – sober, at least.


Much Love,








Lesson Learned: Ask Where The Reservations Are First

Earlier this week, Kari asked me to go to dinner.  Obviously any opportunity I get to hang out with girlfriends, I jump at the chance.  The day of Kari and I’s dinner date, my husband informed me he had to work late.  I called Kari to tell her I would have Sebastian, but asked if he could join us.  She said it shouldn’t be a problem, as he is pretty well behaved.

Later that evening in route to the restaurant she looked at me and said, “You know this place is really nice, like fine dining, right? Obama supposedly frequents this place.”  My response, “You know there is a kid in my back seat, like a toddler, right?”  My anxiety escalated as she tried to convince me all would be fine. I get embarrassed really easy, especially in public.


To save me from having a heart attack,  Kari calls the restaurant to make sure kids were allowed. The hostess, without hesitation, said it would be fine.   Once we arrive, I lean into the hostess and quietly ask, “Can you put us at a table in a dark corner, preferably away from all other living beings. Thanks.”  Kari chimes in, “We will leave if the kid gets crazy.”


Once we were seated (away from everyone else), I immediately pulled out my iPhone so the kid could watch Mickey. Phew that bought us about twenty minutes. The hostess then came over with a placemat and some crayons. Let’s be honest, she probably had to run down the street to the Cheesecake Factory to get those damn crayons, because I know kids rarely come here. The cheapest bottle of wine was $70! We made it through the salad course and much to our surprise, Sebe was a complete angel.  In fact, he was drinking out of a regular water class with such sophistication, you would have thought he was a natural.


Kari and I were able to actually have a conversation and enjoy a three course meal without interruption. At one point my son looked at me and said, “Momma I mind my manners.”  For that… he got Gelato and a kiss.


Once we settled the bill, I put his token batman jacket on and he ran through the restaurant holding his cape screaming, “I am Batman!”  He even did a little twirl by the hostess stand. Luckily all the old rich people left in the restaurant thought it was cute.

When we picked up the car, he proceeded to tell the valet attendant that he was VIP. Listen kid, let’s not get too big for our britches just yet. You’re 2. 

"I am BATMAN!"
“I am BATMAN!”



Why Do Kids Smell Like Sewage Plants?

Remember that intoxicating smell of a newborn that set your ovaries into overdrive?  Even holding a baby that isn’t yours will have your baby maker screaming for one of it’s own.  They smell of new life, hope and innocence.

I'm going to smell bad soon? Crap!
I’m going to smell bad soon? Crap!

I miss that smell. That lovely smell has turned into a smell that I like to compare to a rotten carcass.  A little harsh? No, have you smelled my son?  Next you may ask, “Do you give him a bath?” Yes, I do bathe him often.  Yes, he also brushes his teeth twice a day.

To be honest with you, I am convinced there is a secret society at his school which makes it mandatory to run around as much as possible, while trekking through sewage pools.  Every day I pick him up he is doused in sweat, has dirt under his nails, and painted arms compliments of Crayola markers.  Once we get home and remove his shoes: HOLD your noses people because your nostrils just may burn off. It’s worse than a teenaged boy’s locker room.

Typical Recess at School Apparently

I scrub his his feet every night, why do they smell like rotten cheese and vinegar? We are going to go broke buying new shoes every few months! We have even put powder in his shoes to no avail. Once in the airport he was telling everyone at the gate, “Momma says I have stinky feet.” Not too many found it funny.  I, of course, thought it was hilarious.


At one point I was afraid he might be the smelly kid at school, but not the case.  All those little petri dishes (a.k.a. his friends in class), have the same problem according to their parents.

When he is at home on the weekends with us, the smell-o-meter definitely drops significantly.  Maybe I should start sending him to school in a bubble.  Either way, I guess this is preparing me for when he is a teen and smells even worse. God help me, and my nose.


Grocery Store Debacle

Dear Grocers,

Please eliminate the grocery carts with the attached dilapidated cars immediately.  Reasons to support my plea are as follows:

  • First and foremost, they are DI-SGUS-TING. When was the last time they were cleaned? NEVER?  I need medical latex gloves just to put my kid in there, all-the-while cringing at the thought of him touching the steering wheel. They are complete rubbish and make me want to vomit.
grocery car
I am a monster if I don’t get this car!
  •  There are never enough in circulation for as many kids as there are in the store.  If we pass one of the lucky few that snag one, my kid gets jealous and turns into a monster. Then he hates me.  Do you like making kids hate their parents?
  • They are impossible to turn.  I have to do an 8- point Austin Powers turn just to get to the next aisle. Then I get sympathy/ idiot looks from all the jerks without kids, or the ones that were smart enough to leave them at home.


  • I have a huge husband and a son. They eat a lot.  How in the hell am I supposed to fit all my groceries in the cart when it is a fraction of the size of a normal cart.  My groceries always pile up, and I then look like a pig.  Thanks for promoting my self- esteem.
  • The kids never want to stay in there the whole time! They end up throwing their limbs out only to get smashed into the aisle shelves.  So much for ‘safety’!             Grocery car 2
  •  They are heavy.  For someone small like me it is very difficult to push this P.O.S with a stock pile of food, and a 30 lb kid.

In conclusion, they ruin my life. If you insist on having these stupid cars, please CLEAN them.  AND while you are at it, make them look like an Audi or a Benz, not a beat- down Flintstones lemon.


Holly & Kari

Shattered Hollywood Dreams

So several months ago a work colleague convinced me to submit Sebastian’s pictures to a modeling/talent agency here in Chicago.  I admit he does take pictures well, and he is also cute in real life.

Come on: Cute-a-rom-a!

I wasn’t really into it at first because I have zero time, and I don’t want to add lunatic stage mom to my resume. However when I started showing disinterest, she quickly told me about her friends kid in D.C., who makes a lot of money doing print work.  I put my cocktail down and said, “What is a lot?” Her answer was enough to have me completing the online form that night.

Look….that kid needs to go to college, and it ain’t gettin’ any cheaper! (Yes, sometimes I like to speak like a gangster- really brings home the point).  Plus with all the food that kid eats, he needs to start building up a grocery fund. I will NOT be able to afford his appetite when he is a teen.

Mi Vida Loca
Mi Vida Loca

I get a call two weeks ago that they are interested in meeting him in person today.  AWESOME!  I was very excited and somewhat nervous.  I dress him up like an East Coast/ Martha’s Vineyard/ D-Bag, popped collar and all.  He even let me put product in his hair.

Once we arrive, the place looked pretty nice and professional.  They check us in and escort us to a waiting room with about fifteen other kids.  He was (legit) the cutest one there, just saying.  A talent agent comes in and gives a speech about how they will take our kids to the other room for a minute to snap a photo, and see if they do well with direction.  In my head I am thinking:

He’s got this in the bag.  He is an angel, always listens, AND he looks fabulous. 

As she makes her way to us, he starts yelling he wants to play Angry Birds.  I quickly pull my phone out.  I realize this is the time he usually eats at school and gets ready for his nap.  Sh*t! He better chill the F out, just for a few minutes.  Please Jesus! I start to get nervous, as he is becoming a ticking time bomb. All five of the kids before us were asked to stay.  We are next.  She approaches and asks his name.  “Sebastian.” He states with a smile.  I am starting to sweat. Next she asks him to come with her and grabs his hands.

ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE.  He yells at her not to touch his gloves, tells her he is not going with her, and starts wildly kicking his legs.  You would have thought she was trying to choke him.

add arms and legs flailing
add arms and legs flailing

The record player screeches, and all eyes are on us.  Me…. MORTIFIED. There are only a few times I have requested a ‘return to sender’ on this kid, and today was one of them. (See post: He’s Not Mine for another time.)

Needless to say that b*tch told me he wasn’t ready and needed to reapply in six months.  Even though my kid was a disaster and she had every right to say that, something came over me.  I felt the need to defend and protect him. As I gathered my stuff, I looked at her and said, “You know who isn’t ready?  You!”   I grabbed my little a-hole and walked out.  I guess my his Hollywood dreams are shattered.


Caution: Everything is Evil!

When did buying things for your kids become a lesson in chemistry? I was shopping for a big boy bed the other day and ran across an article informing me there are dangerous chemicals in the frame and paint. Awesome, just what I need to buy my baby boy. There goes his batman bed.

Sometimes I feel as a society, we are encouraged to live in fear.  Which in turn, will make us consume. From day one, you are told bottles are toxic, so you should buy BPA free.  Everything has to be organic, because there are chemicals in their food. And don’t worry, that awesome ‘it’ toy you just bought is sure to be recalled in a year, because it is deadly too.

222 copy

What do we buy for them to eat, play with and sleep on? What can they watch on TV that won’t give them ADD? 

spongey on crack

I find myself getting more and more annoyed.  I can’t only buy wooden toys because my kid loves Batman. He needs Batman in his life to prevent breakdowns.  I don’t want to be the A-Hole parent that doesn’t buy him his super hero sh*t.

No this is not his Halloween costume. He wears this frequently.
No this is not his Halloween costume. He wears this frequently.

I will be the first to admit things have changed since I was a youngster, especially in our food.  I am the soda police at work (yes that girl, but I have convinced a few to get off the juice)!  However everyday something new is on the evening news, warning of us of the ‘deadly’ side effects.  Some days, I don’t want to be a lunatic who is over protective of my son.  Some days, I just want to go to the grocery store and buy a regular piece of fruit.  Some days, I just want to go to the toy store and buy something without reading: Caution: this could kill you and your kid. I am going to have a nervous breakdown trying to keep up with all this! Can’t we just live in ignorance? Wishful thinking.

Pull Your Big Boy Pants Up

The day has arrived. My baby no longer needs his momma to wipe his booty.  I have to admit with every new milestone comes joy and sorrow.  Joy that I no longer have to buy diapers, but sorrow this is one more thing he will not need me for anymore.

My big boy is officially a certified pee-pee in the potty expert. Operation Potty worked!  I have heard of people potty training as early as 15 months.  Maybe I am just a hippy at heart, but I wanted my son to do it when he was ready, or when we were broke from buying diapers, which ever came first.  Luckily he was ready.

This is my poo poo in the potty dance.

When you are a working mom, you need everyone in your child’s life involved in his or her growth.  We enlisted his teachers at school to ask him every hour if he had to go potty.  When he did use the potty the whole class would cheer as he made his exit.  Attention wh*re, wonder where he gets that? His teacher says he is only one of two that currently uses the potty, so that made me proud.  Also, she said he is the popular kid because he is always playing and sharing with everyone.  Sorry- had to throw that one in too. (Attention Wh*ore).

At home, he wore a potty watch.  The watch is shaped like a potty and you set a timer that goes off every hour.  When it went off, S would get very excited and announce it was potty time.  Once he finished, he wanted us to go look at it before he flushed, then would say, “Bye-bye poo-poo!” Husband and I would dance around in a way that we would be embarrassed if it wasn’t just us.

I’m the king of the world!

The final tool in Operation Potty was going to Target and letting him pick out big boy underwear.  He, of course, chose Batman.   Once we got home he pranced around in his new undies and declared himself a big boy.  There you have it.  It truly is the little things in life that make you happy.

Free Time? What’s That?

I have a confession.  I always get a slight tinge of jealousy on Friday’s when my non-kid friends or colleagues are so excited for the weekend, presumably because they have ‘free’ time to do as they please. I, on the other hand, have forgotten what ‘free’ time means.

I listen to them speak about their upcoming trips to tropical destinations, and can feel my mouth dropping as I imagine myself on a beach with a Corona.  Those thoughts then turn into hallucinations before someone snaps me back into reality, “Holly, are you listening?”  Um no, I was living through you and you ruined it d-bag!

 Don’t get me wrong, my nights and weekends are filled with family time and I enjoy every minute.  However, I do (sometimes) miss the days of sleeping in, OR just sleeping at all.

 As parents we know our ‘real’ job doesn’t begin until we come home.  Our free time goes something like this:  Drive home, unload kids, cook them dinner, cook you dinner (because they NEVER want to eat what you eat), bath time, brush teeth, story time, bed time, your shower time, then is it already 10 pm? Your bedtime. Ex-haus-ting!  Oh and if your kid is sick, then you are really screwed because you will probably be up all night cleaning up throw up and a** explosions. You are sure to enjoy that next day at work!

Of course when you have a night like this, the next day is when non-kid friends have to tell you how they are so tired, and so busy and expect sympathy from you.  I wish I could blurt out,  “Shut your face!  Wait until you have kids, then tell me how tired and busy you are.”  I refrain because I remember when I was a non-kid person, and that always would annoy me.

In the end, I have to admit listening to non-kid people whine about their ‘busy’ lives makes me feel like a bad a**. Because not only am I the HBIC at work, but I do this after pulling all-nighters cleaning up vomit and poop.  Take that losers.

I find this picture hilarious. Enjoy.
I find this picture hilarious. Enjoy.

Round Two. Ding, Ding

Since Husband and I are beginning the daunting task of trying to get pregnant again, I have been reflecting back on my first pregnancy.  In doing so, I am hoping to pep-talk myself so I don’t chicken out.  Isn’t it amazing how women tend to forgot? We choose to only remember the good things.  I already shared some of my birth story (see: Push Gifts?), which was in comparison, relatively easy.

Overall, I would say my pregnancy was pretty easy too.  However, being the little nugget that I am with a giant husband, my son filled his ‘womb’ pretty quickly with his long legs. Carrying around this basketball player for nine months (it’s actually 10 months- those liars!), definitely took its toll on me some days.

In a quest to prepare myself for round two, I have put together the following list of things I am, and am not looking forward to.

Things I AM NOT looking forward to would include (TMI):

  • Peeing on myself when I sneeze, cough or laugh (Ugh)
  • Not being able to go poo (yes, women do this too)
  • Nose congestion (I think I had a borderline addiction to Afrin last time)
  • HUGE boobs that hurt with the slightest touch (or even breeze!)
  • Having Husband shave my legs because I can no longer reach them
  • Watching the scale climb, and there is nothing I can do about it
  • Awkward sex (No bueno)
  • Ugly clothes (VERY ugly clothes)
  • Waddling when I walk (Stupid round ligament pain!)
  • Giving up 9 (10) months of food and drinks I like (I am a foodie)

Things I AM looking forward to would include:

Still thinking……. Oh yes:

  • Excuse to take naps on weekends
  • All those hormones make my hair and nails pretty
  • All those hormones make you have really ‘dirtty‘ dreams. (Sorry Mom. Ladies you know what I am talking about.  I would wake up blushing!)
  • Feeling baby move (Pretty awesome)
  • Hearing the heart beat the first time (Emotional)
  • Anticipation and excitement of meeting the person you have already bonded with
  • Finally, and most important- the moment they are born.  There is nothing more amazing than that moment you hold your child for the first time.  It is indescribable, and brings me joy just thinking about it.

I am glad I finished with the ‘things I AM looking forward to’, as the excitement is starting to build.  So, who’s coming with me?  It is always more fun to be miserable with someone else, right?  Now back to baby making.


Sleeping with the Enemy

While pregnant everyone, including strangers, had advice for me. Among the list was: Don’t give him a paci he will get nipple confusion, don’t eat spicy food it will come out in your breast milk, don’t let them sleep in your bed they will never leave, blah, blah and blah.

Everything seemed overwhelming enough, I didn’t need the added stress of the “do’s and don’ts” of parenting. About a week after baby was born, Husband and I had to tell our family and friends to just let us figure it out and if we needed advice, we would ask. Some of the advice admittedly turned out to be true, particularly the sleeping in the bed bit.

I have to admit, I was (and maybe still am) the one who didn’t want him sleeping in his own room. First off, I would have never been able to sleep when he was a baby if he wasn’t in my room. Even then, I slept with one eye open and his bassinet was within arms reach. Plus since Husband and I worked so hard to get him on this earth, that kid was never leaving my sight. After three months, Husband said it was time to let him go in his own room. After he went to sleep, I would sometimes sneak Baby back in the room. Crazy? Maybe just a little.


Fast forward to now. I have a toddler who request’s ‘Momma’s Bed’ every night, and I have to tell you: it is hard to say no. He likes to cuddle and read books, which I love. However once he is asleep, he frails his arms and legs in the air and often hits me in the head. He also likes to sleep sideways on a king bed, shared with a man who is 6’5”, and then there is me. I am lucky to get a small section in the corner. Husband has given up the battle at this point; he knows I am just as attached to Sebastian as he is to me.

If I do put him in his bed after he falls asleep, he often wakes in the middle of the night and tries to sneak back into our room. Most times he is too tired to actually make it, and I find him in the morning either on the floor with his blanket or hanging off his bed.

I figure one day he will be too cool to hang out with me, and I will be lucky to even get a hug. So in the meantime, who cares if he sleeps with his momma! But before you pass judgment, know that I fully intend on paying his therapy bills in his 30’s due to his co-dependencies.