Author: Gena Golas

The ninth floor

Every time I go to my OB’s Hartford office, I second-guess myself about where to go—do I send the elevator to the 7th or the 9th floor? Each time, I look at the directory on the wall to confirm that I need the 7th floor, then ascend with the elevator to my appointment.   Why, halfway through my second pregnancy with the same OB, do I continue to forget what floor I need to go see her?   This building, on the 9th floor, also houses the office for the reproductive endocrinologist who helped us get pregnant with Lenny. For months we would, in fact, choose the 9th floor from the buttons on the elevator, which would take us to our appointments where we talked about ovulation, sperm count, and hormone injections. So many times, I hit that button on the elevator—it was the only floor I needed to know, ingrained in my brain. Even now.   Finally, after months of treatments and counseling, we were pregnant, and able to choose the 7th floor instead, no longer needing the help of the reproductive endocrinologist.   Our IVF experience is unforgettable for many reasons—the emotions, the injections, our beautiful son. I never thought, though, that such a small detail of that time would be so deep-seated in my mind that I truly have to double check the building directory at...

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Mom’s first time out

Tonight, Lenny got his first mom-issued time out, and we both survived to tell the tale. Truthfully, the time out was a long time coming. Despite Lenny being the generally well behaved, good natured kid he’s always been, he is also fully in the throes of Being Two And A Half–testing limits, and his ability to say the word “no” as much as possible. Just this past weekend, my husband gave Lenny his very first time out, for a reason I can’t even remember at this point. I, however, had avoided the time-out until now, opting instead for a lot of patience, some negotiation, and probably too many chances given. However, I’ve gotten tired of what has become our routine for getting in the car. First, Lenny has to do everything himself, from climbing into the car and his car seat, to buckling each buckle. If this were the extent of the routine, I would applaud his independence and tolerate the little extra time it took so he was able to do it on his own. Only, it doesn’t end there. Before he gets in the car, Lenny has to go through the extensive process of putting whatever toy he has on hand in the “cave” (the space between the car seat and the back seat), then take 15 minutes just to convince him to climb into the car,...

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Elation, disbelief, surprise, fear, excitement, and…guilt?

I don’t even know how to begin to write this post, partly because I was unsure if I was going to write it in the first place. I suppose I should begin with…I’m pregnant.   Wait, let me start again—I’m PREGNANT!   That’s better. I think? I’ve been so on the fence about publicly sharing our happy news that it is hard to know how to say it. But, why?   Telling my husband was easy. Telling our families was just as easy, and fun. Talk about a surprise for everyone! We eagerly shared the news we didn’t think we’d have the chance to say again. Another baby!   Total elation and excitement, definite disbelief, surprise and fear. We’ve now been through all of the normal emotions of a new pregnancy. But, why the guilt?   I’ve been reluctant to share our news publicly, although most of me is dying to shout it from the rooftops. Why wouldn’t I want to celebrate this baby, just like we did with our first baby? Because we didn’t think there would be another baby. There wasn’t supposed to be another baby. Not easily, anyway. It shouldn’t have been possible. With the news of our infertility before Lenny was conceived, we were told that the likelihood we would conceive on our own was slim to none, a near impossibility.   After that initial...

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“I love you too, Momma.”

“I love you too, Momma.” We’re sitting quietly at bedtime when he says it. He says it like he’s answering me, but I didn’t say, “I love you.”  Not out loud, anyway. It’s like he knows I say it over and over in my head, and he’s answering me anyway. I love you, I love you, I love you.  Maybe he feels it in the way I hug him. Maybe he knows when I give in to one more book at bedtime. Maybe he can tell when I tolerantly wipe peanut butter off the television. I love you, I love you, I love you, my sweet boy. I love you.  He knows anyway, even if I do tell him a lot.  Only recently is he able to say it back. But I know, too. I know by the smile he gives me when I’m helping him try to pee on the potty. By how excited he gets when I’m the one to wake him up in the morning. I know when he dances along to the radio with me in the car.  I’ve always known. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me. I love you too,...

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The little things

Last week was my 35th birthday. It was a Monday like any other—I woke up.  I went to work. I came home. I went grocery shopping. We had dinner.  I spent a little time with my husband.  I went to bed. All the little things that make up a day—pretty unordinary for a birthday, but it was a Monday, after all.   Except, there’s more to it than just that.   I woke up and got my son up. The two of us enjoyed some alone time together before daddy got up, a time of day I always look forward to. I went to work, to a job I love, one that feels challenging and rewarding and satisfying. I came home to a bouquet of yellow roses from my guys. My husband took over the bedtime routine, so that I had time to myself. I went grocery shopping, a chore I honestly enjoy, and I got to go by myself, which was heavenly. When I got home, I took a long, hot shower, which was also heavenly. After my son was asleep, my husband and I cooked a late dinner, and enjoyed it together, just the two of us. We spent time snuggling on the couch before going to bed.   Yes, it was a Monday like any other, but those little things that made up the day are actually...

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