Tales from the infertile.

Most people would be thrilled to have some time off work on a lazy Friday to take a mid-morning nap. A calm siesta, where one could drift off into a tranquil slumber, if only for a short while. Alas, that was not the case as I lay on the examining table for 40 minutes today waiting for my ob/gyn. “Just relax,” the nurse had said, but staring up at the bright florescent light while lying on a hard surface (the paper liner does little for back support) was not cozy.

Infertile women should not have to wait that long. We already have an unhealthy obsession with thinking about how we are infertile, but giving us extra time to think about this as we’re surrounded by baby magazines, pre-natal vitamin samples, and sonogram gel tubes is just asking for a flood of tears. Fortunately I held my composure today and chose to focus instead on how I could better please my husband with an appropriately elaborate, tasteful, and expensive Thanksgiving centerpiece (guilt compliments of the Martha Stewart magazine- the only non-baby publication in the room.)

After the nurse, adorned in her cute Halloween scrubs, removed the stitches from the aftermath of my laparoscopy, my doctor came in to talk about the “next steps.” Once again the road to getting baby "insert name here" will be a “wait and see.” The good news is that nothing is really majorly wrong yet. Dr. W is hopeful things will “take” this month and we’ll be in business. If not, he foretold of the great fertility drug SHOTS (ouch!) that will await me–complete with horrible side effects (bitchiness, mood swings, nausea….sorry sweetie!) If THAT doesn’t work it’s time for the IVF conversation.

I stopped off at Gloria Jeans on my way back to school from the appointment. 40 minutes of wait time deserves a pumpkin spice latte. A large, complete with whipped cream, sprinkles, and an extra long straw. Probably all the daily recommended calories I need, but us infertile gals’ deserve a little extra sometimes! Driving back I reflected on the trials we’ve been through the past two years and what lies ahead this next month of “waiting”. Despite it all, I lift up my latte and toast to the promise of a productive month, full of hope, faith, and well….production!

On Fridays we wear purple.

If you've ever watched the cult classic film Mean Girls, your familiar with the Plastics rule of wearing pink on Wednesdays. What would normally be met with aspersion by normal teens becomes ritual for this particular clique, part of the accepted canon of being with the elite. The situation in the film thus becomes humorous as Cady struggles to meet the prestige of the girls, and then later surpasses it.

On Fridays we wear purple. It was said to me matter of fact, with no more nor less enthusiasm than You need to see Marge to get the travel forms. It didn't require explanation, a playful tale, or witty remark: On Fridays we wear purple. As I sat listening to that introductory speech four weeks ago, I seemed to be the only newbie finding humor in what the serious and intimidating principal said. Glances around the room clearly told me no one else was thinking, are you serious?! Hmm....Must be alone.

Feeling particularly devoted to school spirit that first Friday, I rummaged through the closet, produced the only purple (in fact, a pale lavender) shirt I could find, and donned it for the day; preparing to be mortified as the only teacher naive enough to follow the administrations' oration to a T. Wrong again. Purple was THE color to be wearing on Friday. Teachers, admin, hall monitors; if you were an adult- you were in purple. Thank God for naivety. Clearly Cady, it isn't just the Plastics who have fatuous customs, adults do it too.

When my purple jacket, school emblem in the upper left corner, arrived today, I was elated. Yet another status symbol of being in the adult Plastics at my school. I like it.

I can't help but wonder why we not only join in on the observance of purple Friday, but why we, like Cady, enjoy it? Maybe it's a middle school/high school thing. Maybe it's because the alternative is a sense of self-doubt, stares and glares, and knowing you're left out of a grown up clique where your membership already hangs on precariously by a purple thread. Maybe it really is about setting the scene of school pride, or maybe it's because it's just that much easier to get dressed on a Friday.

When our young charges stroll in- in their baggy pants, Goth makeup, and seemingly non-pretentious clothing (a whole topic on its own) preaching about how their "unique individuality" expresses their rage against conformists- we all role our eyes. Please...get over yourself...no intelligent adult purposefully conforms to a group for the sake of conforming. And yet, as I stand there in my neatly pressed jeans and purple shirt this Friday, I know I'll smile at the young little mavericks and laugh at myself and the ridiculously blatant symbol of conformity I wear. And as I turn in my order form for yet another purple staff shirt, I'll have an an inward chuckle and a metaphoric tear to my eye.

About the boring.

When you teach the same subject all day, material is bound to get a little monotonous. Your voice starts to drone on in your mind, you start questioning whether or not you've already said the thing you just said, and you struggle to keep it interesting-for yourself. I'd forgotten all that...until today.

By 7th period, which is really only the third class I teach, with two more left to go, my eyes felt droopy, my mind a puddle of repeated mush. By 8th period, I actually noticed my repetitive voice fluctuating at precisely the same times as the classes prior (a fact which I'm sure caused my student teacher to infer I was reading from a script-- I was not.) By 9th period, with carefully timed jokes now three classes stale, my blistered feet (which haven't seen heals since May) trudged on through til the blissful tone of the dismissal bell. The first full day is over.

The first nightmare.

Anyone who is a fellow teacher will understand "the nightmare." It comes in many forms prior to the start of the school year, succeeding to frighten the newbie teacher out of a carefully, well thought out, and well planned intrepid first day. Heading into my forth year I'm well familiar with the nightmare, it usually rears itself within the couple of weeks prior to the start of school, repeats itself in seven or eight different forms, and usually goes away by the end of the first week. It's the dream where you can't control your classroom.

A high school lecture style classroom was the stage of my dream; featuring eighty or so formidable looking high schoolers. (The rational personal will note here that I do not actually teach high school, nor is my classroom ever larger than 30 or so students.) They yelled, turned desks over, tormented other students and, as is the common theme in the nightmare, refused to listen to the soft spoken, kind, and reposeful teacher (me) trying to gather order. In some variations of this dream, as was the case last night, an experienced faceless teacher looms over the newbie glaring down over bifocals in disgust at this mockery of an educational environment.

Upon waking the details were fuzzy, but the feelings very real....welcome to the start of the new school year.