Parenting over popularity

Today I'm veering off the topic of infertility and instead I'm going to whine for a moment about the other thing in my life that is just as important...

Step parenting.

Right off the bat, let's get something out of the way. I love being a stepmom. For real. It is something that was not in my life plan, but it came to me anyway and I'm forever grateful.

My step kids are everything to me. I love them with the same heart, soul, and mind that I love my own biological son. But full disclosure, it is a different kind of love.

(And by the way, that's how it should be.)

My stepdaughters have two parents who love them with their entire being, their every breath, their every thought. They are loved by their parents in the same way that I love my son. I will never love my stepdaughters that way because they are not mine. The position of Mom and Dad have been filled...I just work here.

So that being said - I still need to bitch, because step parenting (and spoiler alert, even regular parenting) isn't always glitter and hugs and marshmallows.

Here's the deal. My husband and I parent very, very differently than my stepdaughters' mother does (we'll call her Mama Ex). I'll spare you all the gory details, but for over 10 years we have tried the whole "co-parenting" thing, where we offer to get together with Mama Ex and sing kumbaya and come up with a plan for how to be on the same page or at least in the same chapter.

It's a lost cause. We aren't even reading the same parenting book.

In our house, my husband and I believe in rules, chores*, and responsibilities so we can raise his daughters to be productive members of society.

(*Chores equals clean the bathroom, unload the dishwasher, and occasionally help wipe the table after dinner. We're not talking slave labor, here.)

Mama Ex doesn't necessarily believe in those things, which is totally her right. My stepdaughters don't clean their room at her house, or mop a floor, or wash a dish. And that's fine. She can and should raise her children however she sees fit, and it's really none of my business...

Until it is.

I see my husband's relationship with his daughters taking a turn to negative-town before my very eyes because of this glaring difference in parenting styles. Earlier this month, my oldest step daughter texted her dad that she wanted to stay with her mom for the week and not come to our house. Her reasons? We treat her like a child and she should be able to make her own decisions about what she does at home. (Cue an eye roll so hard I literally saw the front of my brain.) Obviously we declined her request to skip a week at our home, but when she turns 18 next August, she will technically be able to stop coming over if she chooses. 

It breaks our hearts to know that might actually happen.

The way I see it, it is because we want to treat her like an adult that we give her and her sister chores and responsibilities in this home. If we wanted to treat them like a child, they wouldn't be expected to do anything and we'd also be wiping their tushies after they go poo poo.

Look, I get it. I was 16 once. I hated my parents for imposing chores on me (especially in the summer. Ugh FML). I wanted all the benefits of being an adult (do whatever, wherever, whenever) but none of the responsibilities (like paying for whatever, wherever, whenever) and I'm sure that's how my stepdaughter feels as well. 

The difference is, I grew up in a home where both of my parents understood the necessity of preparing me for adulthood. They knew that being a teen is supposed to suck. Otherwise I'd have ended up 32 years old, living in their basement, with a stimulating career at "Things Remembered" engraving wedding goblets for all of my friends who got the hell out of their parents' house. The job description for a parent is to make life just uncomfortable enough that one day your kids wake up and think, "Huh, maybe I should get my own place. Then I can leave pizza in my room for 5 weeks and not get in trouble!"

(And then they have to pay for an ant exterminator and you laugh at them and say I told you so.)

My parents didn't enjoy giving me chores per se. Of course they wanted to give me a carefree life, but they knew that doing so would cripple me from becoming the adult I was meant to be.

Unfortunately in our current situation, one parent wants to truly treat his child like an adult, and the other wants to keep her seemingly in a state of toddlerhood. Both styles of parenting are valid and both have their merits and downfalls. But, for this child, choosing between those two "parenting styles"? Girl, please. Obviously one of them totally rocks and the other seems awful and abusive.

THAT ISN'T RIGHT.

Why should the person who loves his kids so much that he's willing to be the parent and not the friend be punished for doing so? 

Many people that I have vented to say something along the lines of, "Don't worry, when she gets older, your stepdaughter will understand." While that's a nice thought, there's no guarantee. Because over there across town, Mama Ex is thinking the exact same thing. She's also thinking that someday her daughter will grow up and understand how mom has been right all along and her dad was indeed a cotton headed ninny muggins.

Someone is going to be the loser in this scenario. And seemingly it will be the household who is a lot less fun...i.e. us.

Part of me wants to say, "Screw it, Mama Ex. You win. We will no longer give the kids any chores or make them accountable for any damn thing they do." I mean, that would be the easiest. The girls would be happiest in the short run. 

(Although that means I would have to start cleaning their bathroom and I mean, hell to the no.)

The biggest problem I have with giving up and giving in is, parenting isn't about the short game. If it was, I would let my son play with knives because in the short run OMG IT MAKES HIM SO HAPPY. But in the long run, he really does need his fingers...so I take away the cutlery. I feel that I owe my husband's child the best part of my parenting self. To do any less would be a disservice to her. 

And in case you're wondering, I will raise my son exactly the same way. Homeboy will be doing chores as soon as I can trust him to not drink the toilet bowl cleaner.

Parenting is all about the long haul. You can't (in my humble, often unasked for opinion) raise smart, savvy, strong kids by doing everything for them and also letting them do whatever they dream up. They have to learn the most basic of the basics so that someday when they're shacking up with their hot new boyfriend, they don't have to ask him to wash their underwear.

My husband and I believe that learning to be accountable, learning to save and manage your money, learning to load a dishwasher...these are important enough lessons that they must be taught by someone.

And so we will do it.

Even if that means we have to be the bad guy.

Even if that means we lose the popular vote.

decisions, decisions, decisions

Look! My blog got a face lift? Do you like? I hope so. I spent a solid 25 minutes on a lunch break trying to figure out if I wanted to pull the trigger or not, and landed on "yes" because my sandwich was getting cold.

That's how all the best decisions are made, don't you agree?

Anywhoo, I do hope you like the new blog outfit. If not, mmmk. Onto today's post...

*******

I have always loved getting mail.

When I was young, my mom would announce that she heard the post man drive by and I would beeline to the front door, stepping on my sister's ponytails, knocking my brother to the floor, all in an attempt to please let it be my turn to retrieve the day's take. And because this was before Fitbits, my mom was all too willing to accept my generous offer because really, who wants to walk out to the mailbox?

(Also, my mom was an adult and knew there was nothing in that mailbox that was going to give her anything but a headache.)

The mailbox deliveries were generally a disappointment to me. Coupons for a free car wash, a bill or two, an envelope from the Publisher's Clearing House with some white haired dude promising me a chance at 30 million. Yadda yadda. But it wasn't necessarily the actual bits of mail that would excite me anyway; it was the anticipation of what might be there. I lived for it.

As I got older, the mailbox offerings became less exciting and sadly, more predictable. Especially in the college years. I got a lot of "final notice" envelopes with big, scary, red block letters warning me that I was mere days away from having no electricity. This loosely translated to "YOU ARE ALMOST GOING TO BE UNABLE TO KEEP YOUR BEER COLD." 

Fast forward through my early career days, where mail didn't alter much from the college years. Bills, student loan reminders, and perhaps a few credit card statements from places I had no business being approved for. (WHY would JC Penney give a 22 year old a $1,000 credit limit?)

Then, marriage! And with it arrival of envelopes with "Mr + Mrs" on them. CUTE! Plus, packages filled with things I actually wanted, like fun accessories for the house that I could finally afford and order online! Sure I still got notices about renewing my car tags, but there were also wedding invitations and birthday party invites and random late-night purchases from Amazon. The mail had finally turned back into the exciting and unexpected joy it had been for me as a child.

But then - infertility. And the joy was gone faster than it had come. Once we started treatments, that cold, hard, shit-box only held instructions for my medications, invoices from the fertility clinic, and explanation of benefits (or lack thereof) from insurance.

Infertility stole many things from me, but one of the most significant was my euphoria in getting the mail. I suddenly despised the entire mail process. I avoided opening envelopes - and subsequently missed important deadlines - and wanted nothing more then for it all to go away.

Eventually, as you know, I did get pregnant and had my son. And shortly after some nasty bills from the hospital for this little gem of a birth story, the dust cleared, and once again, the mail returned to exactly what I wanted it to be: fun. A daily surprise that held possibilities!

I've been settled deep into the love nest of my mailbox for a little over a year, so perhaps that's what made this last week's parcel so unexpected. I went to retrieve the mail, expecting some lovely new shampoo that will give my tresses strength and volume and  

BOOM

There it was.

My fertility clinic wants to know if I'd like to pay the yearly fee to keep our remaining 13 embryos frozen or, let them go.

Cold hard reality set in and my heart sank. Not because I'm sad I have the embryos. It's amazing I have them! I'm simply sad because of the unavoidable realization that we truly are probably a one and done IVF family. 

In fairness, we always planned it to be that way. Even before infertility, my husband and I accepted that we already had two kids (two daughters from my husband's previous relationship) and therefore one of our own was probably all we could handle, financially and otherwise. We talked about it, we agreed to it, we decided on it.

But after the drama of infertility and working so hard to get our son, it almost feels vulgar to leave those 13 other embryos un-realized. Even though they've only been grown out five days, I still feel a motherly attachment to them. I'm not one of those people who believes that life begins at inception (though if you are, no judgment at all), but I do feel like there are 13 little (potential) lives in those cryogenic freezers just WAITING to make someone's life amazing. So why wouldn't I use them to make my life more amazing?

AND WHY THE HELL DID I DECIDE TO ONLY HAVE ONE??

Of course, nostalgia and the adorableness of a baby is not a valid reason to make a baby. I know in my heart that the right thing (for us) is to only have one child.

And yet...I still wonder.

My husband is on the anti-baby train all the way. In his defense, I think it's a little easier for him to separate out his emotions. Yes, he went through infertility with me, but he didn't take injections and go through hell in his head every waking moment...it was just a different experience. He knew from the beginning we were one and done, and he's accepted that and is good with it. 

But for me, the pull of another baby is still there - I feel myself wanting to go again.

Of course, the option for the last year or two has been easy. Pay the fee, keep the embryos on ice and deal with it in a year. But now here we are, one year later. Do I really need to keep paying this fee year over year when I know we won't be making a withdrawal from the baby embryo bank?

Lastly, there's always donation. We could release our 13 little loves into the abyss of the fertility clinic's database. And maybe someday a lovely, deserving couple would select one. But then my crazy brain starts thinking thoughts like what if someone gets one of our daughter embryos and my son ends up meeting her and they fall in love and get married and it's incestuous!??!! 

(I never said my thoughts are rational. Sometimes I go dark, people.)

So here I am here again. Confused, illogical, and really mad at my mailbox for ruining my week. Though, I do count myself lucky that I even have this predicament to begin with, as I know so many would kill to be in my shoes. 

Overall, common sense and my agreement with my husband says no. But that darn heart of mine sometimes says yes.

Maybe a letter will arrive in the mail telling me exactly what to do. Until then...

The Trouble With Never

Something amazing happens when women get together and support each other, and today is no different. To celebrate National Infertility Awareness Week, and to launch Justine Brooks Froelker's new book The Mother of Second Chances on April 17th, I am participating in her blog tour. Five weeks of 25 women sharing their stories surrounding infertility and loss. Together we are educating and inspiring others to come out of the shadows of infertility, and know they are supported and loved.

Yesterday on her blog, Jessica shared her story, today I'm sharing mine, and tomorrow you can check out Meaghan's post at My Beautiful Crazy. Please participate by sharing these posts! Share your stories with the hashtags: #NAIW #infertility and #EverUpward.

                 

Without further ado, here's my post for today:

I’ve spent a good deal of my life speaking and thinking in absolutes. Yes and no. Black and white. Never and forever. This thing or that thing. It’s just how I’m built.

Sometimes this quality is helpful. For example, as a teen when I was rapidly falling in love with every single male in my high school, my tendency toward absolute thinking was helpful. Does this guy in the Nike hat that I fell in love with in 3^rd period even know who I am? Nope. Well, then it’s not meant to be. On to the next. At other times, absolutes can be a problem. Husband is late coming home from work? Well, clearly he has been in a car accident and is lying dead on the side of the road. You can see the issues this type of thinking can create.

Okay, so what does this have to do with infertility? Trust me, I’m getting there.

When I graduated college and began my journey into true adulthood, there were things I was absolutely dead sure about. One of them was family planning. The resolute part of myself decided that I would A) be married by age 26 and B) have at least two of children, maybe even three if my body bounced back, by the age of 31. (No, I wasn’t vain at all.) In retrospect, the arrogance of this whole “plan” still infuriates me. The fact that I thought I had any control of any of the items on the checklist is sickening to me. But, you know what they say about hindsight.

Anyways, this whole egotistical I-am-in-control-of-my-life family plan thing was reliant upon one thing: marrying my high school boyfriend. I’ll let you guess if that worked out. Spoiler alert: It did not work out.

So there I was, 26.8 years old and hit with the realization that my high school boyfriend was not, in fact, marriage (or father) material. I had a dilemma. The clock on my absolute, dead set, never-going-back family plan was going to run out. I was back at the starting gate.

I began to re-evaluate all of the things I was so absolutely sure about. I clearly was not going to hit my marriage goal, and by association, my child plan was looking bleak as well. Thankfully, I met my husband and we were engaged and married within seven months (that’s another story, and it’s a good one so look for that one of these days). My husband had two children of his own, so I became a stepmother at the age of 27. AHA! My child plan was back on track! Yes, a little amended because they weren’t biologically mine, but no biggie, I could still have one of my own easily.

And then life said let me just stop you right there.

The reality of infertility hit at 30. And it hit hard. Not only was I infertile, but the doctors didn’t – and still don’t – know why I couldn’t get pregnant. We began treatments at age 30, so if all went well, I could still have a baby by 31 and stick to my plan.

Somewhere deep inside, the absolute part of my brain was beginning to deteriorate. It was still holding strong, but the walls were weakening.

One other thing I am sad to admit to you is the absolute certitude that I believed I would never, ever, ever, go through IVF. Not even when we began fertility treatments did this conviction change in my mind. IVF was a weird, science-y thing that rich people did when they turned 45 and still wanted kids they couldn’t have naturally. I would never need that. Some injections and pills would take care of everything. Okay and maybe if the pills didn’t work I’d consider that whole turkey baster IUI thing. But why even think about that? Things would never get that far.

Never.

And once again, life said hold my beer and watch this.

Three years, two failed IUI’s, a rapidly dwindling bank account, 33 candles on my birthday cake, and still no baby. No more certainty. I was free falling into an abyss that I couldn’t escape.

“Never” had taken on a whole new meaning. Rather than thinking about all things I would never do to have a baby, I was thinking of all the things I absolutely would do to make it happen. Life had, in the immortal words of Missy Elliott, put my thing down flipped it and reversed it. And in the end, the part of me who would never ever go through IVf...went through IVF.

This is the trouble with absolutes. The trouble with never. This life and this universe really aren’t interested in what you’ve decided you will never and can’t ever do. At the end of the day, never is always possible, and we short change ourselves when we decide it isn't. We limit our potential and our progress. No, I didn’t enjoy the process of Clomid and IUI’s and injections and tests and IVF. But…I also wouldn’t have met amazing doctors, nurses, accountants, pharmacists and some of my best friends if I hadn’t gone through it. I wouldn’t have my son if I kept firm to my never. I wouldn’t have met others just like me and just like you. 

As an infertile who has come out the other side, I am done with never. I am done with telling anyone, including myself, what can never happen. And yes, I know there are those of you out there who truly are not able to have children of your own, or even through adoption or fostering. I still encourage you to rid yourselves of never, because we simply do not know where life is going to take us next. It could be somewhere we didn't expect.

Lastly, despite my good-bye to never, let’s not kid ourselves, I’m still a black and white kinda gal, so the draw toward absolutes is still there for me. I choose to feed it in a different form. I am all about the always. I will always be there for those who need me, and I will always advocate for the infertility and infant loss community. I will always be there for my friends, even if they are still stuck in their never.

Always.

Poop on the Stoop

No need to protect your heart today, I'm steering clear of infertility and bringing you one of my greatest hits from my personal blog of yesteryear. I randomly thought about this particular story this morning and decided to share it with you because A) I'm not feeling well and new content is too much for me today. Also, B) I love this story. So enjoy!

Today I'm watching TV working from home, about to enjoy my heaping-helping-of-boring salad lunch. There's a knock at the door.

A quick check outside confirms the Fed Ex truck is outside my house. YES! A work package I requested has finally arrived! I open my door and step onto the porch, planning to kiss the delivery man. Instead I see this.

Whoa, dude. What did I do to deserve this from Fed Ex? I mean, I haven't seen the poop on a stoop prank since 1992. 

"Hey," I call to delivery man who is no longer getting a $25.00 bonus at Christmas. "What's this about?"

"Your package is actually out here by the garage," the man points behind him as he half-jogs back to his truck. "I decided to stay off the porch." he warns. "That raccoon must've gotten sick on your porch."

Um, what? I nod my head like I totally get what he's talking about (I do that a lot) and start to head back inside.

"Just so you know, it's also all over your the stairs," Fed Ex man says. He gives a little wave, puts the truck in drive and is gone.

I walk over to our front stoop, and see this...

WHAT IN THE NAME OF CHRIST ON A BICYCLE.


I hear a small noise that sounds like gragle-gurdlakc and it all suddenly becomes clear. Because right there, just to the right of the steps - is a raccoon. A totally scared (I'm assuming shitless) raccoon.

I decide he is a boy.

His eyes are wide and terrified. He's shaking like a blizzard is ripping his little body to shreds. I react lik a rational adult and instantly begin to sob. What do I do? Any raccoon that has made this much of a mess and isn't running scared from a human is either:

a) sick.

b) really sick

c) dying right in front of me and ohmygod I will never get over it if I hear a death rattle

I run back into the house and grab my phone to call my husband. He must've forgiven me for falling asleep at 8:15 last night because he answers right away. I inform him of what's happening and that I'm thinking of picking the raccoon up, wrapping it in swaddling clothes and feeding it some orange juice.

He tells me not to touch it and call Animal Control ASAP.

Cool, cuz I totally have that number on speed dial.

I hang up, stand there on my porch, continue to cry, and coo at the racoon, "it's going to be okay, little baby! Kimmy is going to get you taken care of. I won't let anybody hurt you, no I won't!"

(I will admit I also added, "it's okay that you took a poo poo on the steps. I know your tummy hurts, baby. Don't be embarrassed." Because, look, shitting yourself is humiliating, human or no.)

Anyways.

You would think there would be a general number to dial in the unlikely event a wild animal appears on your front steps with an explosive case of diarrhea. Well there's not.

When it's all said and done, I call five different numbers and all five inform me that yes, they will remove wild animals for $150-$220 depending on the size of animal and amount of force required for it to be removed. Let's just back the hell on up, a minute. Why do we need force to remove a raccoon that just needs a roll of Charmin Ultra Soft and some Pepto? Who are these sick people?

I am thisclose to calling 911 which will result in a leaked recording of my hysteria going viral on YouTube, when I look across the street and see my neighbor. He is also a cop. I ignore the fact that I'm in pajama pants and call him over.

Neighbor Cop is not one to be trifled with. He's bald and washes his car three times a week and therefore I assume he is also a badass. He wastes no time, hops on his cell and is all, "Dispatch, this is Officer Blah Blah and we have a potential rabid raccoon in Sector 9.654 of the suburbs."

But get this - even Neighbor Cop has to go through five different numbers to find the appropriate people to come get this poor animal. Shouldn't the correct animal control number be easy? Like 444 or something?

Meanwhile, Rork is still shitting himself.

(Yes, I named the raccoon. Shut up.)

The Neighborhood & Community Services Department for Animal Health & Public Safety (there's the problem right there. With a name like that, how can I expect them to have an easy phone number?) tells Neighbor Cop they will be by within the hour. In the meantime, don't bother Rork and don't touch him.

Neighbor Cop goes back into his house and I stay out on the porch to talk to Rork and keep him calm. I also completely forget his tummy problem and lovingly toss him some dry cat food in case he's hungry.

I won't lie to you. I sing to him. The only song I can think of is Michael Jackson's "You Are Not Alone." Rork's big brown eyes tell me he appreciates the gesture. Either that or they're telling me to leave him alone because he has some more crapping to do. It's a toss up, really.

Twenty minutes later the cavalry arrives. Rork is put into a safety cage in the Animal Control officer's truck. I'm told Rork probably just ate something that made him feel sick and very disoriented. They will monitor his behavior over the next few hours and if he is deemed safe, they will re-release him back into the woods.

(I'm also told to clean up the dry cat food in my yard unless I want more wild animals showing up on my front porch.)

In the end, I wave good-bye to Rork and am glad that he's going to be okay. 

I don't know why Rork decided to poo poo and vomit all over my front porch and find solace there. Maybe he knew what a lover of animals I am and that I'd find a way to make him safe, even if it meant calling every number in the tri-state area. Maybe he wanted to inspire me to write a catchy phrase that will help people remember the Animal Control phone number. I'll never really know the whole story.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it happened to me because I'm a blogger and I reach (a few) people through this medium. And maybe just telling my story will help one or two other people to know what to do if this happens to them. 

Either way, I'm going to do my part. If you live in the Kansas City area, and a wild animal is injured or lurking around your house, don't waste your time on a worthless Google search. Call 816.839.2947 to reach the Animal Health & Public Safety office. 

Don't try and help Rork the Raccoon or Sophie the Snake or Bingo the Batshit Bear by yourself. Just be there for them in the best way you can. They'll appreciate it.

Now I'm off to clean up Rork's smelly mess. And I really don't mind.

Cuz you gotta have friends...but in one location

Is anyone still here? I mean, if you are, God bless you because you are LOYAL AS HELL. It's been a long time since I have posted. Like, longer than Cersei's hair used to be on Game of Thrones.

(Do you guys watch that show? Holy crap, it's good. But I'm getting off subject.)

Anyways, I've been going through a bit of a mid-30's crisis. I have too much stuff to discuss and many stories I want to share, but way too many avenues available to discuss them. There's just no consistency. 

Let me back up because that probably made zero sense.

Life ebbs and flows, as do the "stuffs" that make it up. I've always had a desire to share those stuffs. Maybe you aren't aware, but I have a total of three blogs that I've created and contributed to somewhat consistently over the years. The very first was a personal blog that I began nine years ago. I put my last name in the title like a moron and began to share very personal stories and anecdotes from my newly married life, my childhood, and everything in between. It was legit like therapy. Since I needed readers and Twitter was still a fetus, I opted to share the blog with every single living person in my life, including family members. Needless to say it was a decision that I regretted almost instantly. Apparently people do not like it when you tell stories about them - even if they are hilarious. 

(For the record, if anyone wants to write stories about me that are hilarious, bring. it. on. No one laughs at me harder than me.)

So after I had had enough "oh my God, why did you make me look so stupid in your blog?!" emails to last me forever, I let that lifestyle blog shrivel up and all but die. (But I'd be lying if I said I don't miss it like crazy. More on that in a minute.)

Next up was an anonymous blog creation that I co-founded with the help of my friend Tracy. We wanted to share our experiences and frustrations as stepmoms, so we developed www.redheadedstepmoms.com. We even bought the official web address so we didn't have to tack "blogspot" onto it. How pro is that?? We expected we'd be on Ellen within months. It didn't happen, but we connected with amazing stepmoms across the globe and shared experiences, stories, and laughs.

And then I decided I wanted to be a mother. But fate decided otherwise and made me an infertile. And for a talker like myself, it was difficult, because announcing "hey, did you know my blood results this month indicated I ovulated?" isn't well received at parties.

So I started this blog. Obviously you know that because you're reading it. It is the nearest and closest to my heart. In the same vein as the stepmomming blog, I made the initial decision to keep it real by keeping it real anonymous. But about a year in, I kicked it out of the closet and decided to own these very personal stories. Because what is this life even worth if you aren't owning what you go through? Going "public" with the blog was scary as hell, but never once have I regretted it.

What does this have to do with anything? 

Well to put it plainly - I have stories. Stories about infertility, stories about being a stepmom, and stories about my life as a girl who got huge boobs in 8th grade and once made diarrhea in her pants at a National Monument in Wyoming. These stories are all worth telling (in my opinion, anyway), and my readers seem to agree that they are stories worth reading. And so, the other morning while noticing how awful my dental floss smells after I use it, I had a random thought. Why do all of these stories have to be compartmentalized into three separate blogs? Do they really need to be?

Look, sometimes I wake up at 3:00 AM with a deep thought on how to be a better stepmom. Then one day in the middle of ordering a Chai Tea Latte with #skimmilkpleaseorIwillcutyou, I'll recall the most amazing story from when I was 15 and decided to start a wear-your-watch-on-your-ankle trend. Later in the week, I might remember a moment in my infertility journey that made me smile. The overarching theme here is that these are stories and thoughts that I want to share with my people. And that's the problem. All my people are in three separate places.

The long and short of it is, these are all my life experiences. And many of them have probably happened to you, too. Except pooping at a National Monument. I think that one is just me.

I once heard a pod-caster who was giving blog advice say, "find a super small niche and stick with it." I fully get what she was saying. Except I can't do it. I can't just talk about why my ovaries don't want to produce a kid on their own. I can't only discuss my stupid ex-boyfriend who once knocked his teeth out with a broomstick on Valentine's Day (yes, it happened). I can't solely whine and rejoice about being a stepmom. 

Life doesn't happen in carefully curated segments. 

Just call me Dr. Seuss. I am here and there and everywhere and eating green eggs and ham with feet in my shoes, steering myself in any direction I choose. I am all of these crazy things at all times of the day, and knowing me and reading about me means knowing and reading about all of me.

Do you dig?

Are you still there?

I'm going to do something that sounds like a financial adviser's worse nightmare. I am going to un-diversify. Or de-diversify. I am going to combine, coalesce, conjoin, mingle and blend. All three blogs down into one. Just one.

From here on out, please find me here and only here at www.saltinthewomb.blogspot.com. Yes, it's listed as an infertility blog. But you will find that this blog contains stories from all walks of my *super interesting life. My fertility journey. My childhood. My husband. My marriage. My family. My job. My stepkids. My pets. My son. 

(That's a lot of "my's". I might have narcissistic personality disorder. Noted.)

Please feel free to follow along with me. You can even tell your friends. And yes, this blog is hardly anonymous. Because really, if I tell a funny story about you, it's because you did something funny. It's a compliment. 

(Also. I say curse words. The bad ones. So maybe don't read at work. Or do, I don't know your life.)

The final benefit of this culminating of blogs is that it culminates social media as well. Let's keep it simple. Email me at saltinthewomb@gmail.com. You can find me on Facebook here. Here I am being unfunny on Twitter. I'm not on the Gram yet with my blog because why, really. This seems like an adequate amount of coverage for now.

Lastly, I adore email and connecting with readers and other bloggers so please shoot me a note. About anything. Let me know if you wish I would discuss something that will help you stay sane. Nothing is off limits. Except cooking tips; my skills don't go further than ruining perfectly good chicken thighs.

We're all in this together!

*super interesting =  mildly interesting