Tedium had begun to establish itself as the norm around the Miller house due to Constance’s nausea and exhaustion. Even the thought of collapsing onto the sofa for a day of football seemed an unwelcome idea because I was stir crazy for life outside of our condo walls. My only escapes were running, work and band practice; then it was back home for more sitting and more TV. And by TV, I mean 30 Rock.

Last weekend was a good start toward the resumption of normal life, with Mary’s wedding and the Bears/Eagles game, but those were social events in which we were playing host to out-of-towners. What I craved was some of that one-on-one time in which the two of us could do stupid things, make irrational decisions and be held accountable to no one. That’s the beauty of coupledom – the effortless enabling of two people to do things they can’t really afford in the name of love – and I missed it dearly.

As we round the bend toward week 13 of pregnancy, however, Constance has begun to feel much better and a lot less fatigued. So on Saturday morning we scurried from bed and, instead of diving headfirst into another sofa-bound Saturday, drove to Long Grove for the Apple Fest. We were promised apples, apple pie, apple donuts, apple cider and the crowning of an apple princess.

Surprisingly, nothing in the promotional materials mentioned straight-up apples, but once we arrived the bucolic village had that and more. It was Greenwich Village meets Stars Hollow, albeit without a single spot to grab a coffee. Even without my lifeline we sampled gourmet olive oils, ogled the premature Christmas wares, purchased Vietnamese cinnamon (spicy, sweet and D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S) and split a single apple donut. Constance’s dream of being being a Gilmore Girl for a day was, if not quite fully realized, vaguely imagined.

Best of all, someone at this shop had a sense of humor with the monogrammed candles.

It was the ideal 4-hour adventure, and the ideal time to discuss what Apple Fest would be like in 2009 when we paraded the streets, apple-munching with our baby in-tow. Of all the things I could be excited about in regards to being a father, being out and about with baby, going to family events and children’s movies with an actual child of my making, gets me giddy. I look forward to not having to make excuses as to why I’m the first one in line for Toy Story 3.

And why am I itching to put up the Christmas tree already??

I have an illness and it is called Christmasyphilis. Perhaps I should work on the name a bit before I take it mainstream …

Filed under: 1st trimester, Baby Prep, Diversions, Husband & Wife | 3 Comments »

I’ve tried to be supportive – to let go of my dietary snobbery in the name of pregnancy cravings – but I can no longer talk to the hand, let alone eat with him.

Hamburger Helper remains the #1 eatable food for Constance, which is a challenge for me primarily because I don’t like processed foods. That and the fact that I have a dairy allergy, which causes me to develop a bronchial infection when I consume too much cow byproduct. I’ve been preparing it with rice milk, but there is not a variety on the shelf that doesn’t contain milk or whey. Even our newest find, Sloppy Joe (with noodles?!?!?!), listed milk in the first 5 ingredients. I sound like I have emphysema every morning when I crawl out of bed and I think I might be developing a slight case of scurvy due to a lack of leafy greens.

“Baby, I think we’re going to have to start eating different meals,” I announced last night. I had convinced Constance that eggs and tater tots were a viable alternative for the night, but I could sense disquiet amongst the boxes of Cheeseburger Macaroni, Cheesy Ranch Macaroni and Four Cheese Pasta in the food cabinet. I knew that soon enough they would make their demands to be eaten a reality, and I knew that I had to announce my new eating plan before they had the opportunity to slap me in the face. “I was thinking I could make Hamburger Helper for you at dinner and then you could take the leftovers for lunch.”

“What will you eat?” Constance asked. Rarely does a restaurant meal go by that she doesn’t announce her desire to eat what I’ve ordered, which is why it’s best when we dine on the same dish.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but that just means more for you. My lungs just can’t take it.” So starting tonight I will prepare the Cheeseburger Macaroni for baby and mama, and a pork loin with roasted carrots and onions for the daddy-to-be. Doing everything for the ones you love doesn’t have to mean eating from a box filled with poisonous cheese, and sacrificing your needs doesn’t necessarily bring you closer to your wife and unborn child.

It just makes you sick and starch-puffy, until you realize that all it really means is now you will be cooking two separate meals every night until baby develops a taste for quiche.

Filed under: 1st trimester, Baby Prep, Husband & Wife, Matthew I.V.F. Miller, When I'm a Dad ... | 17 Comments »

After 9 months of attempted conception sans pregnancy Constance and I knew something about our reproductive organs were slightly left of center. Because I assumed it was my fault – a natural progression of events due to my prior obesity – I wanted to be the first one tested. It wasn’t the only reason, mind you. We both knew that testing women for fertility issues is far more invasive and difficult to diagnose. And as embarrassing as buying the over-the-counter sperm test was and as unpleasant as it was to produce a two samples in the bathroom of Swedish Covenant Hospital, it was invasive only in the sense that it made me want to run away screaming due to inexplicable feelings of violation and shame.

Feelings which are much easier to cope with than those associated with filling the fallopian tubes with iodine.

As I read this wonderful article from Kenyan journalist, Arthur Okwemba, about his experience walking into a hospital to request a semen analysis, I discovered thoughts I’ve been struggling to express throughout the past 2 years. I’m repeatedly asked about the relationship between my masculinity and my infertility as people question exactly how a man in our society can struggle with a low sperm count and still feel like “a man.”

My answer is always the same – I refuse to apologize for something I can’t control and I refuse to harbor shame for something that I can’t change. Men as a population remain embarrassed about facing issues of infertility and for many it’s a matter of feeling unmanly. For a long time I thought it was just men that felt that way – that it was men continuing the cycle of antiquated definitions of manliness – but the more I’ve talked to people about our infertility, the more the carnal truth gnashed its sharp teeth. An equal amount of women tie a man’s masculinity to his ability to procreate. And vice-versa.

I think that’s what fertile people don’t always understand about our infertile quest: It’s inescapable because it’s tied to our very worth as human beings. Whether we want to believe it or not, and whether or not it’s factual or rational (it isn’t), from Kenya to Chicago to our own minds, we continue to believe as a society that to procreate is what makes us man and woman, respectively.

It’s a message I tried not to take to heart but one I repeatedly believed despite my best efforts. Every now and then I still feel shame about my sperm count and, as a result, suffer temporary feelings of unmanliness. But those pass once I remind myself that a real man is one comfortable enough in his own skin to do even the most taboo of acts in a public restroom and live to tell. A real man doesn’t back down from a challenge, even if that challenge is dysfunctional testicles.

A real man doesn’t have to have kids … ever. Neither does a real woman. But if a real man wants kids, he’s got to make peace with the process, which means understanding that you are not your body.

Say it with me fellas: I am not my penis. I am not my penis. I am not my penis. (Ladies, feel free to chant along, but you might want to insert vagina/uterus to avoid peculiar stares and workplace confusion.)

There now – doesn’t that feel better?

Filed under: 1st trimester, Matthew I.V.F. Miller, On a Rant | 8 Comments »

Our first major social event of the pregnancy era was the wedding of my lifelong friend. Mary Fons got married, and as it turned out our ill-timed mall trip last weekend in preparation for the big day was only the precursor to a much more frustrating and ill-timed bout of those same dastardly retail emotions.

Only this time it was Marcy the dog’s fault.

Friday night we picked up my best friend, Sarah Zahn, from her Philadelphia flight and went out for Mexican food. Since we moved to our new condo 15 months ago, Sarah hadn’t had the opportunity to visit us so we were doubly excited to have our home in spit-spot condition for her first viewing. One of the last things we had to do was take out the garbage. And we did. Only we took it out of the can, tied up the bag and placed it on the floor. Our plan was to take it outside on our way to get Sarah because, honestly, why make two trips outside?

Of course we forgot, and our efficient vision became a stanky nightmare as we walked in for the big reveal – bellies full of tacos, enchiladas and quesadillas – to find coffee grounds, pineapple paraphernalia, melon rinds and other unrecognizable mementos from our week of eating strewn about the condo. Our cream-colored duvet cover was smeared with wet coffee and sticky and prickly bits of pineapple, the living room rug looked like a miniature landfill and the air smelled like a cafe dumpster.

And then there was Marcy herself, who was bloated, gassy and looking ready to puke at any moment. She never did puke, but the second time Sarah walked into our home following a quick errand run on Saturday morning, we were greeted by the sight and stench of a sick puppy’s poo.

Worst of all, Constance had picked up some inserts that morning for the brand new heels she bought last weekend during the shopping excursion that caused so much trouble in the first place.

“Wow, Constance,” Sarah said, “those shoes are beautiful!”

“Thank you,” Constance said. “I’m so excited cuz all I had were flats and they make me feel so frumpy and short when I get dressed up. These make me feel good.”

And then she set them down on the floor only steps from the place we sat the garbage. And once Sarah departed with the bride’s mother in order to practice her song for the wedding, Constance wanted to lie down for a brief rest to conserve energy for the long night ahead. “Sex and the City” was on TBS and we mindlessly watched for 20 minutes before it was time to throw on our sexy clothes and be on our way.

Upon climbing out of bed I walked into the living room and what did I find but her new gray heels on the center of the rug, one of which had been gnawed to the point that the plastic on the bottom of the heel was now irreparably destroyed.

“Uh, Constance,” I yelled into the bedroom where she had yet to arise from the bed. “There’s no good way for me to tell you this, but try to stay calm.”

“What’s up?”

“Marcy ate your shoe!” became the match to the fuse of a

“What?!” she shrieked. I walked toward her with the mangled shoe in-tow and quickly placed it in her outstretched hand. Her face resembled an agitated Elmer Fudd as she inspected the wreckage, and I half expected the redness to boil and cause billows of steam to flow from her ears. Silly rabbits and silly dogs – Constance was furious and crying.

“Why don’t I ever get to feel pretty at things like this?” she asked in tears. “I always feel so uncomfortable anyway because I’m so short and I don’t like what I’m wearing but those shoes made me feel so pretty.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” I said. “You will look beautiful because you are beautiful. I’m so sorry this happened.” After 5 minutes of anger and anti-dog sentiments, Constance rallied with a pair of knee-high black boots that raised her height and style to wondrous proportions.

“You look hot,” I said. “Those boots are way better anyway.”

“No they’re not, but thank you for saying so.” The longer she was in them, however, and the more compliments she got on her dress and necklace, her stylish boots and, of course, the beautiful bump that was not-so-hidden by her dress, the gray heels and the frustrating dog became less. It was fun to have people fuss over her stomach, and while we both thought having people “touch” Constance’s stomach would be a weird thing, it’s OK. More than OK, actually, so long as we know the toucher.

It was a beautiful ceremony, Mary looked like a stylish paper doll, and the celebration of her marriage became a celebration of a lifetime of love and friendship that we now get to share with our expanding family. And as weddings often do, Mary’s big day served to remind everyone that gray heels are not what make life special.

Sexy, maybe. But not special, as evidenced by Constance’s decision to swap heels for flats prior to the reception. Comfort is always king, especially for the pregnant lady.

Filed under: 1st trimester, Diversions, Why is Everybody Pregnant? | No Comments »

“Matty, I think I just did something really stupid,” Constance said in lieu of a proper greeting in response to my playful, “Hello, beautiful.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked as my heart began to thumb its way down into my stomach, thudding rapidly enough to cause instant nausea. I dropped my koi-fish covered messenger bag onto the ground in the center of my office and held up a silencing finger to my boss who had been inquiring about my evening ahead.

“Well, we were going out to celebrate a co-worker’s birthday to one of those fancy, organic frozen yogurt places. And I know I’m not supposed to have soft-serve ice cream but I looked it up before I left and saw that frozen yogurt was OK, but then I came back and looked again cuz I got really bad gas and it turns out that you can get listeria from those machines. Because they don’t always clean them enough. And it doesn’t even hurt humans but it can kill baby.”

In the course of her exposition Constance had gone from quivering to frantic to crying, but my nerves were put to ease when I found out that the issue we were facing was not a fall down the stairs or an accidental ingestion of poison, but rather a creamy dairy no-no.

“Sweetie, I’m sure it will be OK. You just won’t do it again.”

“But what if it hurts baby. Maybe we should buy a Doppler so we can know!”

“Constance, I don’t think you have to worry about it. Now that you know you just won’t eat that.”

“I also found out that I shouldn’t eat things like the pre-cooked and then refrigerated chicken, or even those Whole Foods hot dogs.”

“Well, there you go,” I said. “You’ve eaten all of those things and nothing bad has happened, right?”

“I know, but I don’t want to hurt baby. What if I messed up? I’m disappointed in myself.” Her panic was one of the most romantic gestures I have ever experienced via telephone. It hadn’t dawned on me until that cellular fit exactly how completely Constance’s view of her body had changed since we became pregnant.

How stressful it must be, I thought, to no longer eat, move and think for yourself, but for someone else. It wasn’t a new revelation by any means, but to witness her self-directed anger and disappointment took it to a new level. Patience, which historically has not been my greatest, 2nd greatest or 10th greatest virtue, became my default. It’s not like me to sugarcoat, but sweetness became me.

“Sweetie, you did nothing wrong. Think about it. You’ve eaten all of those things before and nothing bad happened. And now you know not to eat THOSE things, so maybe this was a good thing. And besides, I’m sure it was a clean place and the chance of something happening is extremely low.”

Through sniffles she said, “It’s a really busy place downtown. I’ve heard that helps because the machines don’t sit as long and build-up bacteria.”

“And think about all of the women who are 11 weeks pregnant that don’t even know they’re pregnant, and they go to McDonalds or drink caffeine or eat luncheon meat. Their babies are fine. You are doing everything right, baby. Please don’t worry.”

“You’re right,” she said. “Thank you. The McDonalds thing really helped. I just don’t want anything to go wrong. I don’t want to hurt baby.”

“Of course you don’t. You are doing a great job and think about how happy and healthy baby was on Wednesday.”

“OK, thank you. I feel better now. I just love baby so much.”

“Me too,” I said. “Crazy much.”

Filed under: 1st trimester, Baby Prep, Husband & Wife | 8 Comments »

“Wanna hear the baby’s heartbeat?” Dr. Wos asked. “I didn’t think we’d get to do that today because I didn’t know you were 11 weeks already. But now is the perfect time. Just let me go grab the Doppler.”

As her white lab coat fluttered past my face, the breeze of her movement blowing me back into reality, Constance and my eyes locked like magnets and widened into shiny quarters.

“Oh shit,” I said, dropping an expletive from my vocabulary usually reserved for grittier settings not plastered with posters outlining the differences between a female and male condoms or stuffed to the gills with baby and pregnancy paraphernalia. “I didn’t know we’d get to do this today.”

“I didn’t either,” Constance said. “I bet this makes your hunger seem not so bad, huh?” I had a bowl of cereal at 7 AM and nothing but coffee since. As the clock ticked toward 1:15 my blood sugar was nosediving faster than the economy and my mood along with it. But knowing I was about to hear the thumping of our child’s heart blurred my needs. Hunger no longer felt like a pressing issue, but rather something I could curb at will.

“As long as baby makes my lunch,” I said, “I’ll be just fine.”

Dr. Wos returned with a small box outfitted with a speaker and a small, pencil-like wand with a large cap on the end. She applied a small amount of lubrication onto Constance’s belly, flipped-on the switch and filled the room with static.

“This usually takes a bit to locate,” she said as she rolled the Doppler back and forth. But it didn’t take a bit. It only took 10 seconds until the machine began to chug with rapid, dance-y beats. “That’s your baby.”

“Oh my god,” Constance said, gazing into my wet eyes. “That’s so cool.”

“Now this is your heartbeat,” Dr. Wos said, moving the Doppler to the left as the thumping slowed to a slow thud. “And this is baby. It’s a very strong, fast heartbeat. Just perfect.” Peeking at the LCD screen I saw the number 174 bpm, and I was overcome with calm.

“That’s such an amazing sound,” I said. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

Some sounds, like those of my favorite songs, take me to internal places where inspiration, creativity and memories abound. Some, like the voices of my friends and family, infuse me with calm, pride, and a love best described as Hallmark-quality schmaltz. But the sound I heard yesterday filled me with an emotion I’ve never experienced and for which I can’t conjure a word. Equal parts relief, joy, sadness, determination, excitement, concern, devotion and possesiveness – that glorious, evocative sound, which still beats in my head, made me feel everything I’ve ever felt all at once.

Now that I think about it, maybe I have felt that way before. But only once, and only for Constance.

Filed under: 1st trimester, Baby Prep, Doctor, Doctor, Oops … | 14 Comments »

At noon we’re headed to Swedish Covenant Hospital to meet our OB/GYN for the very first time. Word on the street is that she’s amazing – she was nominated for “Doctor of the Year” in 2007 at the hospital, and every bit of info we could cull from a Google search was positive. Women who have had her for deliveries and pap smears light a virtual candle in her vaginal honor.

Back in the day I attended several ultrasounds with my sister, April, when she was pregnant, and was once mistaken for her husband by the technician. She said we made “a lovely family.” How right she was …

Even then, back when I still had 100 pounds to lose and a lot growing up to do, I had a predilection for babies and I cherished the chance to be there for my sister and future niece. Pride swelled in my gut when the technician assumed I was the father because I believed there was no greater label to be inadvertently stuck to my forehead. In retrospect the funniest part of being called a daddy when I wasn’t is that when I was 18 and immature I probably could have become a father with ease. Thankfully, I didn’t.

One of the questions I’m repeatedly asked during interviews for my book is “If you had it to do all over again would you have decided to try starting a family sooner?” The answer is a resounding “no” because I believe that if you could go back and change one thing about your life you would end up changing everything. I’ve seen “Back to the Future” enough to know how time travel and flux capaciters ruin everything, and I happen to like my life – bald head, infertility and all.

And now that it’s my time to be more than a brother with a mistaken identity, to be the actual father of the baby at hand, I’m downright giddy. After going through 2+ years of the medical equivalent of slamming your head into a brick wall, I respect the gravity of this moment more than I would have had I fathered a child back when Bill Clinton was president and Constance fawned over the Backstreet Boys. Now is my time - and it’s the right time.

So take that, McFly.

Filed under: 1st trimester, Doctor, Doctor, Matthew I.V.F. Miller | 11 Comments »

Being uncomfortable in your own clothes or your own skin – or some combination of the two – is the mental equivalent of a severe case of chicken pox. You want to claw your eyes out, tear your skin off, writhe on the floor as if in need of exorcism and cry, not from the pain, but the frustration of what feels like an anguish without end.

Baby is growing, Constance is growing and the combination of those two events mixed with an ill-timed trip to the mall created the perfect storm for a weekend marked by frumpy and grumpy. Our friend, Blaine, was in from Denver, and she’s a master shopper. Constance needed a dress for a wedding on Saturday, so with best intentions and visions of economic grandeur we were off.

“I look awful,” Constance proclaimed as she gazed into yet another mirror in yet another store at Old Orchard Mall in Skokie. Nearly two years had passed since we’d been mall bound, since the celebration of my 28th birthday at Williams-Sonoma, and today I was reminded why we so rarely ventured out. “Seriously, these jeans do nothing for me. They just make me look fat.”

Every mirror we passed Constance dropped her bottom, stuck out her stomach, pushed her chin down, and frowned.

“Sweetie, you’re pregnant,” I said. “You look pregnant. And you look beautiful.” Landing smack dab in the middle of the need for 24/7 maternity gear and being able to wear her not-expecting attire, Constance feels unattractive in her slightly baggy maternity jeans, but also feels too stuffed when wearing her favorite Gap standbys. Her body is changing in ways I don’t ever get to experience or understand, and even though she’s over-the-moon and thankful about finally being pregnant she still feels gross.

And since all she can stomach are heavy carbs, she’s beginning to feel weighted down by potatoes, homemade buns and baby’s ever-expanding home.

Add to the mix our aforementioned guest, Constance’s continual exhaustion, and the fact that I kept her out past her bedtime on Friday night to attend an inexplicably warm Jenny Lewis concert, one quickly realizes the mall was an poor choice on a Saturday morning. I see this now in retrospect, but for those 3-1/2 hours of wandering, complaining and unhappiness it felt like an invisible bear trap digging into my neck.

By Sunday, however, as we settled in to watch the Eagles beat up on the Steelers, Constance was feeling a little more upbeat about her appearance. Maybe it was the drawstring pants, maybe it was the comfort of a hoodie sweatshirt or maybe it was a dominant Eagles defense, but my beautiful wife resumed her glowing, beautiful state of being.

Or maybe it was pirate toast …

Regardless of what made her feel better, what I’m learning is that everything about pregnancy is unexpected and just like being infertile, emotions continue to have a mind of their own.

Filed under: 1st trimester, Baby Prep, Husband & Wife, Matthew I.V.F. Miller, News from the Parent Front | 11 Comments »

Nausea - it continues even after I caved and swallowed a few tablespoons of the pink stuff. Pepto Bismol did not solve my problems, as I suspected, yet it made Constance happy that I took her advice and, best of all, I lived to tell. But the queasiness consumes me still. So much so that I can’t be at my computer a minute longer. But I did want to share a few things before I go home:

1. Q&A in the Chicago Tribune
In the print edition there was a HUGE photo of me to go along with it - I startled myself when I caught my eye. The story was almost 1/2 of a page. I have to admit, it was pretty cool and the author did a great job.

2. Podcast on the BlogTalk Radio
I did a live podcast the other night about the book with Kristin Chase, who was a gracious host. Take a listen if you get the chance – I was battling nausea and attempting coherence all at the same time. Let me know if I pulled it off.

3. Happy Birthday, Angie!
My eldest sister turns 35 today and, as many of you know, she has been a guiding light for both me and Constance throughout infertility. My world is better because of her, and I wish her nothing but happiness and strong cocktails as she rounds the bend toward 40

Filed under: Baby's 1st Book, Diversions | 5 Comments »

SURPRISE! Yes, it is me at long last – and after many kind inquiries as to my thoughts on matters. It is hopefully not surprising that I hardly know where to start – delirious joy, eagerness, and relief unfortunately followed by devastation, paranoia, and relief again. Now I find myself in a state of cautious optimism. As Matty has eloquently described in recent posts, what we was thought would be nine months of euphoria after stepping off the rollercoaster something like this one, was in fact a trick ending with one more drop waiting just after we thought we were safe from plunges. In short, I’m spent. More importantly, I am for a second time believing that we are on stable ground.

Those who know me well know that I am not one for fate. While I believe we can always learn from our experiences, I do not believe things happen for a reason in the philosophical sense so that we can become a certain way or learn a certain thing. I do, however, believe in physical reasons and that our bodies are absolutely incredible organisms capable of mind-boggling feats. I know that when a pregnancy doesn’t work out, the body has a darn good reason even if we have no idea what it is. This impressive and very sad bodily talent has helped me work through my grief for the past week and half. I am much better, but I will always wonder what Baby B would have looked or been like if things had been a tiny bit different.

The signs of my body have also given me hope. It might also be no surprise that I am skeptical of all things which start with, “one day you will know/understand…” (sorry Mom). That said, I have always trusted my gut – some can call it maternal instinct, some can call it being in tune with your body – either way, after several days of sadness I suddenly had a very good feeling that baby was okay. We were lucky enough to confirm it the next day with an ultrasound. Since then the main word to describe my feelings has pretty much been NAUSEA – of the morning/midday/afternoon/evening variety, but I have not lost that gut feeling that everything is okay. Baby is okay. We’re okay. It’s going to be okay.

So, thank you all for asking and my apologies for staying away so long. A bigger thanks to the continuous good wishes we receive in comments – it is hard to overstate how helpful they are. Baby says thank you, too.

Filed under: 1st trimester, Husband & Wife | 16 Comments »