Kris Kringle and Tim Riggins are Helping Me Make a Baby!

When my husband comes home from work and there is a giant cardboard box on the front-porch, he usually assumes that I had too many glasses of white wine and spent $200 at J. Crew again.  This is followed by a lecture from him about how we need to watch our spending, to which I explain "I needed four additional cardigan sweaters in various pastel colors (and one more in navy blue because it goes with everything), new black cafe capri pants, and a florescent necklace/bracelet combo that brings out my summer tan. Plus, I got it on clearance and saved $79!"  If he remains unconvinced, I always like to add in "Honey, it's for work. I can't look sloppy, and the alums from school usually donate extra money if I am wearing a lavender cardigan!"  Eventually he will give in, stop arguing with me, and mumble begrudgingly to himself as he goes upstairs to change while I sit on the sofa and celebrate my victory.

A giant cardboard box arrived today, but this one is filled with something much more delightful (and way more expensive) than over-priced preppy women's wear.  Take a look inside, because evidently Santa Claus came early for this Jewish 29 year-old this year! What did he bring me, you ask?  Well take a peak, because this shit is on every child's wish-list:

(to be fair, this is not a picture of my actual medications--half of my meds are currently at the doc's office, and I pick them up this weekend!  For the sake of "shock value" I stole this one off of Google Images. Thank you to whomever snapped this photo.)

Needles, and creepy drugs, and estrogen patches and gauze pads, and a special container bio hazard container to throw them all away when I am done! Thank you, Kris Kringle...it's just what I asked for! No more IUIs for this chick, I am pulling out the big guns (and big needles) and moving on to IVF. My first appointment is this Sunday, and if all goes as planned I will start the injections on Sunday night.

I have mapped out how the first evening is going to go. I will lay down gracefully on the bed and ice my stomach while listening to soothing tunes and thinking about Tim Riggins. My husband will then swiftly inject me with his doctor-y precision, and I will fail to notice any pain or discomfort. Then I will emerge from the bedroom, and take a lovely stroll to the freezer, where I will return my ice-pack and exchange it for a large portion of Ben and Jerry's ice-cream. Whose the bitch now, infertility? I'm coming for you!