Cause it's a bittersweet symphony this life

I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah
I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind , I feel free now
But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now

For those not familiar, the lines above are from the song Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve. I can't tell you how many times I've let those lyrics wash over me during long, contemplative walks. The song has a special significance this weekend. Where once deep sadness and anger took center stage on Mother's Day weekend, the sensation I feel now is bittersweetness. I expect it always will be the emotion du jour from here on out.

I'm in the Detroit area for a pit stop of sorts after business took me to New York earlier this week. I'm here for a short family visit and to celebrate my mother before heading back to California. So far I've had one customer service person wish me a "Happy Mother's Day" and I expect it won't be the last one. Where in the past such an innocuous greeting would have sent me into orbit, I'm now at a point where I'm just so whatever.

Where I once harbored resentment and envy for all women who could biologically reproduce -- and never quite so furiously as this weekend -- today I'm just resigned to the fact that while my body can do a lot of things really well, conception and delivery are just not on the list.

It does bother me still that any women who can conceive gets held up as a "queen" for a day. That seems unfair somehow. The attention and adulation would be better focused on those women who truly have earned the right to be held up as model Madonnas (not the rocker type, but the real deal).

I've come to appreciate since working out my infertility tortured emotions that I can peacefully co-exist and respect mothers in a way I once could not. I don't know that I'll ever be able to warm up to the smug, self-important moms, those who seemingly hold up their children like some sort of breeding trophy. (They're just too much fun to spoof, too.)

I would like to salute a set of bloggers and readers who have succeeded with pregnancy or have mothered children through adoption. Through them, I have a new appreciation for what Mother's Day is supposed to signify and celebrate: women who truly represent the goodness of motherhood -- those who sacrifice in significant ways to ensure the safety and well-being of their children, those who take their responsibilities to nurture, discipline, and raise good caring future generations, those who don't underestimate the miracle that brought their children into being in the first place.

I would also like to salute those mothers who have a kind and generous heart and look out for the wellbeing of their infertile sisters. To the mother in the midwest referred to here in this post from last Mother's Day, I still would like to know where you live so I can send you flowers.

        

 
... or is it? I guess it depends on your definition of failure.

This latest philosophical debate kicked off in my head a few days ago. The catalyst? The contents of an email I received Monday from someone in the publishing world, which also caused my stomach to clench. (Note to self: in the future, do NOT open your personal email in the middle of a deadline day -- even if it's during the few minutes you have to catch your breath over lunch -- especially on the eve of a big project that you are responsible for turning into a success.)

First some background. For my regular blog visitors, it's no secret that I've been laboring in my spare time (and more intensely the past year or so) on a book. It relates a drama that takes place behind closed doors in households around the world. It offers a personal look at what happens when the babies don't come -- but that's just the beginning.

When the protagonists slowly discover that their bodies have failed them their world turns upside down. Relationships, self-image and plans for the future are thrown into turmoil. After they accept their biological failure they begrudgingly look to science to help "right" them and put them on a path to (finally) starting their family ...

... only to have science fail them.  (Lots of the "f" word here, but not the "f" word used by Brits and Irish alike as a verb, adjective, adverb and any other part of speech you'd care to mention.)

My book intentionally doesn't provide a neat and tidy Hollywood ending. It isn't just my story it's a more universal one.  It asks readers to consider what happens when life doesn't go according to plan.

I don't know about you but I've always found stories that challenge me, that bring to light a different kind of outcome help cultivate a deeper understanding of the human experience. I'm clearly biased but I tend to learn more when things don't turn out as expected.

So what exactly in said email caused my head to spin and my stomach to clench? This sentence: "Childlessness/living child-free is, as you know, the proverbial "orphan", "ugly step-child" and every other insensitive and derogatory term you could come up with of the infertility world. Doctors almost always see it as failure. Other infertile people are terrified to acknowledge it as an outcome, let alone to explore it as a choice."

Whoa. Reading such a statement in black and white came at me like a sucker punch. It never occurred to me that people would look at our decision to stop treatment in such negative terms and label our outcome with the "f" word.  Seriously. Seems I'm damned if I do – as most of society questions the sanity of couples who pursue treatment -- and now I'm damned if I don't ... as in succeed that is.

OUCH.

Now I know that by infertility blogging standards, I'm in a small category and that in not succeeding with IVF I am most infertile women’s worst nightmare, but our decision to end treatment was not about choosing failure. It was about choosing to be free from what had become a destructive reproductive bondage.

Stopping all medical and new age-y yoga, herbal, acupuncture interventions was not without its own costs. It raised a new set of fears. After years of efforts aimed at one and only one outcome (getting pregnant), the idea of allowing another option to take shape was emotionally taxing -- aided and abetted by a host of unknowns.

What exactly lay around the corner?  What would our future look like? Would we ever find ourselves whole again? Would we be able to look at newborns and not die a little inside -- either from envy or from sadness? I was once again plunged into darkness. I could find nothing on the bookshelves or online to help answer those questions. And if the darkness wasn't lonely enough, my childless state was further aggravated in my day to day life by those who assumed that our not “having” children was selfish at worst or hedonistic at best.

I'm not done, yet, with sorting out all of the unexpected twists and turns that have come my way (compliments of infertility) but I don't think of my outcome as synonymous with failure.

Fortunately the email had an antidote. Not long after the sucker punch I found a very moving post about living childfree from Sharah.

        

Short of locating an atomic bomb shelter to hang out in for the first 10-15 days of May there's no way to avoid the bombardment of online, TV and prints ads or the point of purchase displays everywhere celebrating that which many of us can't achieve: motherhood.

This is when I attempt to be zen, or failing that, lose myself in whatever humor I can find. As I occasionally do, I searched online news for the phrase "as a Mom." I'm never disappointed by the smug or sanctimonious articles that surface. It's time again for a visit to the parallel universe. In the following article I've swapped out "as a Mom" for "as an Infertile" and made a few other contextual edits along the way. I hope it helps take the edge off for those feeling under siege. Just remember: the second Sunday in May -- it, too, shall pass.

How to Avoid the Depleted Infertile Syndrome

Driving downtown one day, I happened to notice a bumper sticker that read: "I am Woman. I am invincible. I am tired." Boy, did I laugh when I saw that!! Haven't we all been there?! As Infertiles, we live in a perpetual state of busyness. From being consumed 24-7 with whether we will ever get pregnant on-demand and juggling doctor appointments and inject-able hormones, coming up with new ways to avoid baby showers, trying to appear ‘normal’ at work, and the never-ending to-do lists, we are constantly performing superhuman feats of multi-tasking while we take care of trying to conceive. We strive to do the invincible…and yes, we are tired.

Many Infertiles are led to believe this state of constant busyness and the overwhelmed, exhausted feelings that go along with it are part of the Infertile experience. However, I've learned firsthand that over time this busyness and tiredness can turn into something that experts are now calling Depleted Infertile Syndrome (DIS). In DIS, you're physically and emotionally exhausted, irritable, moody, eating poorly, and you don't feel like you're being the Infertile you want or are meant to be. Life falls way out of balance and you're "running on empty."

The good news is that "running on empty" does not have to be a way of life - it is preventable and treatable. The solution: invest in you.

Okay, so you're probably thinking: "Yeah right, like I have money to invest in myself after paying for infertility treatments not covered by health insurance." You may even be thinking that investing in yourself is a selfish idea. Most of us have been lead to believe that as Infertiles we are supposed to be "self-less" - we're supposed to have a noble and unselfish concern for the welfare of others. The truth of the matter is that being "self-less" is just that - it is a state of being that is without "self." I don't know about you, but that's certainly not a state of being that I want for myself or to model for my follicles.

If we want our follicles to be happy and have a strong sense of self-worth, then it is up to us to model that for them. As Infertiles, we need to appreciate and respect our own self-worth and take the time to be what I call self-ful. Being self-ful does not mean self-absorbed. It means that you care enough about yourself to look after your own needs so that you can better look after the needs of those around you - especially those oocytes.

As an Infertile, you are in one of the world's most demanding and most important jobs. But verging on Depleted Infertile Syndrome while you try to conceive is not going to get that job done successfully.

Here are some ways you can get started on the art of being Self-ful:

1. Forget being the perfect Infertile. Go for great. If the words perfect, best, or should exist in your vocabulary, get rid of them! Thinking in these terms will not only rob you of precious energy, but will also put tremendous stress and pressure on you and your uterus and ovaries.
2. Take time to recharge and restore. If you don't already, begin a habit of taking some much needed time for yourself to refuel your physical and emotional energy. Recharging can be anything from a spa treatment (but beware of strange looks when the attendant sees those needle tracks and bruises on your belly and thighs!) to 10 minutes with a cup of raspberry tea and ripping to shreds a “How I Became a Mom Without Even Trying” story in a celebrity magazine - whatever you need to restore your energy. Just do it!
3. Maintain hormonal balance. Hormonal imbalances play a huge role in the moodiness, fatigue, irritability and "running on empty" feelings many Infertiles experience. I know you won't want to hear this one, but yes, nutrition and exercise are the two biggest keys to maintaining hormonal balance! Increasing your lean protein intake, reducing complex carbohydrates and sugar in your diet and taking a multi-vitamin formula designed for women will go a long way in optimizing hormonal balance. (Just kidding about the sugar thing – have that extra piece of chocolate! You’ve been denied alcohol, caffeine and "recreational" sex. There needs to be some pleasure in life, right?)

You'll be a better Infertile and a better you!

        

I don't eat nearly as much chocolate as I once did. Why? Blogging feedback. Yes. The comfort of chocolate pales in comparison to the soothing that comes from reader comments (and no calories!).  The latest round took me to something of a "comment high" (think runner's high -- though I have never managed to run long enough to get that desired effect, damn my asthma!).

For far too long I thought I was on the verge of losing my mind ... that my response to the "fertile world" was an anomaly. Even now when I'm feeling surrounded -- e.g. alone in a room full of happy, cheerful parents swapping stories -- well, it's just so reassuring to realize how not alone I am. Apparently running for cover to the ladies room amid kidpalooza talk is not an uncommon response among my people. We'll have to work out a silent code so we can find each other. With all of us being so exceptional at the silence thing it shouldn't be a problem.

Humor aside, your comments also make me think. They shed light on how heavy our hearts can be as a result of shattered hopes and dreams. A new reader comment and question from Jennifer K came to a previous post of mine -- one that talks about how difficult it is to cope with infertility since we're forced to relive the pain and loss associated with it every day. She writes:

I happened to come across [your] post today while looking for support to deal with my latest disappointment. I am 40, have been trying to conceive for 5 years, and have given up on treatment after 4 unsuccessful IVFs and not a single pregnancy - so you'd think I'd know better. But this month my period was one day late and last night I fell asleep thinking of due dates, and baby names and cute ways to tell my husband. I swear this morning's reality check was devastating as my first failed IVF.

Jennifer: I just ache for you. I know exactly how this felt. How often I've been in your shoes...

I am not comfortable (for now) with the other options available to me, but today I feel like I'd do anything just so I don't have to continue feeling this same pain over and over again.

I had the thought that perhaps women in my situation who eventually become mothers through adoption or donor eggs are able to heal from infertility at about 99%, while women who choose to be childfree, or have that status forced upon them by circumstance, can only ever hope for 80% recovery. What do you think?

I don't want to still be feeling this pain when I'm eighty. (Funny I almost wrote when I'm a grandmother - see how hard this is!)

The recovery question is a tough one, Jennifer, (and I invite my readers to weigh in, too). Not long ago I wondered if there would ever be a day when the intensity and pain you describe would ever lessen. It engulfed me, and all but took over my life. While I've learned to smile again, the darker days haunt me still. They live in my memory just beneath the surface. When people describe the joy of feeling their baby kick for the first time or seeing and holding their babies just after birth, I'm catapulted back to the devastation of hearing that my fragile embryos didn't succeed. It is near impossible to convey to those who easily built their families how badly I wanted to conceive with my husband -- so badly that I was willing to risk my body and my financial security. 

I can't speak for the recovery of women who went on to adopt or succeed with donors eggs, but I can tell you that the recovery from what we've collectively experienced doesn't happen over night. It takes time. It takes grieving. It takes support and compassion from caring and sensitive people to help us get back on our feet so that we have the fortitude to live in a world that doesn't understand or give much (if any) thought to the pain we carry. I've channeled my emotions into writing. I know others who have found comfort devoting their talents and generous spirits to causes, people or initiatives that bring a different sort of satisfaction.

More than 10 years ago my husband and I agreed when we embarked on the last leg of infertility treatments that we didn't want to have regrets when we were older. We wanted to know that we could look back and know we did our best. And we did. It wasn't easy to arrive where we are today but we are fiercely devoted to each other and we know we are not alone in what we've lived through. Neither are you, dear Jennifer.

        

Note: At the end of this post you'll see an opportunity to share your thoughts about the "silent disorder" with a wider audience.

It's been a few weeks since I read the story "Blogging Infertility" in the journal The New Atlantis. This in-depth article (where you'll see lots of familiar names and blogs) takes a look at the infertility blogging community and some of the issues and challenges facing those of us who live with and write about this "silent disorder."

In a wide-ranging interview last December I shared many thoughts and experiences with the author of the piece.  I was reminded about one of the quotes that made it into the article during a dinner this week with work colleagues.

Among those seated at a long table were people newer to the organization. As with any meal that has an element of team-building to it there was lots of small talk exploring non-work topics. With most everyone on hand in their 40s or early 50s there were abundant stories about children and the challenges of parenting. During one awkward moment (awkward to me, anyway) a question came my way, lobbed over two or three others, aimed at involving me in a group discussion at the other end of the table.

"Pamela, you have, what two boys? or is it a boy and a girl? so you know what it's like to..."

I responded immediately, startled and confused by the question: "I don't have any children."

"But you have pictures on your desk of you and children..."

"They're my nieces and nephews..." I replied, attempting to clarify.

"Oh, so you don't have kids?"

"No, no kids," I said.

There was a minor pause before the person to my immediate left jumped in and the conversation continued without me.

I wanted very much to elaborate, to tell them that my husband I had spent a dozen years trying to conceive, that we'd pursued outside help at a research hospital, that we'd passed all of the tests with flying colors but flunked the final exam -- more than once -- but with the waiter bringing our entrees and the din of the restaurant and the buzz kill associated with my story, it just didn't seem appropriate then and there to open up my life to them. Sigh. Instead I was left feeling frustrated and closeted. And that's where my quote in the article comes into play.

The reporter explains the dilemma:

"...many never tell their family or friends that they’re undergoing treatment, or only tell them after treatment is over. 'It really is a double-edged sword,” Tsigdinos (me) says.  And, perversely, it’s a dilemma made more complicated by modern technology. 'I often wonder,' she says, 'Was it harder to be infertile in the Fifties [than today]? Because in the Fifties, at my age, people would say, ‘Gee, they couldn’t have children’ because birth control, the Pill, didn’t exist.... Today, there’s more ambiguity. People don’t know if you elected not to have children, if you couldn’t have children, if we made the ‘mistake’ of waiting too long."

And that ambiguity challenges me more and more often as I get older and live in the shadow of unsuccessful infertility treatments. I don't want to make a federal case about what my husband and I lived through, but I also hate the (usually wrong) assumptions and insensitivities that come with my circumstances. Why, I wonder, do we infertile folk feel it's necessary to go out of our way to protect others from the reality of our experiences, to suffer silently wishing we had a repertoire of our own child-related stories to tell.  (Well, we do actually have plenty of stories but they're more medical in nature.)

For a split second, as the entrees arrived, I considered telling it like it truly was but then what? Given the sensitive nature of the subject matter I had to weigh the risks of sharing my story with what might come next.  Would they find my honesty inappropriate? Would they resent me for trapping them at a table with a topic sure to make them uncomfortable? Would they feel an obligation to ask more questions and offer unsolicited advice? Or worse yet, would they make light of it, dismiss it and move on to a more congenial topic?

I certainly never aspired to be an infertility community "poster child," but I am beyond frustrated at living in a society that prefers people in my situation be silent, invisible. Earlier in the mixer part of the evening I had to smile pretty and nod quietly when the man directly across from me said, as he savored a glass of wine, "When my four children -- all now gone from the nest -- come back together for a family dinner, well, I'm just at my happiest -- take me now! My kids, they're everything to me." And turning to a colleague who had just finished describing her two children, he asked "XXX, wouldn't you agree?"

Me? I had to excuse myself to go to the ladies room. The only trouble was I couldn't live in the stall all night.

The truth is people living with infertility don't like living in a vacuum. We flock to this blogging community to talk about those things which we don't have liberty to discuss in our day to day lives. But, many of the experiences we have deserve a fair and wider hearing.

That's why I can only hope that the article in The New Atlantis, the panel I helped initiate at the BlogHer conference this July (more on that in a later post), and a New York Times wellness series I've agreed to participate in will help pave the way to more open conversations. That in revealing the layers and dimensions and nuance associated with infertility we won't have to feel compelled to be silent (if we don't want to be).

Now, after this long-winded post comes a request. I'll be talking to the New York Times this week about my experience living with infertility in a fertile world. If there are specific points you would like to me highlight, I'm all ears. Please share your thoughts below.

        

There are few things more awkward than sitting in an office conference room with colleagues for a medical benefits overview. Do I really want to know whether a coworker's husband's nagging psoriasis and his prescription co-pays will remain unchanged? Staring at forms that require naming beneficiaries conjures up way more than I care to share with my workmates.  

A few years ago I would have reviewed the various conditions covered and not covered and silently fumed about why infertility treatment or prescriptions didn't make it on the covered list while trapped in a room with a colleague who prattled on endlessly about the number of emergency room visits that inevitably come with having two little boys, dont'cha know? (NO! I don't).

And I probably would have lost it at one time in the recent past when the outside medical insurance consultant started talking cavalierly about how "you all know the importance of good coverage for your kids -- especially when your kids get exposed to chicken pox" or "your kids injure themselves on the playing field..."

Not content to leave it there and encouraged by all the vigorous head nodding going around the room, Mr. Consultant Man went on to explain in nauseating detail an endless set of various parenting/sick child anecdotes ticking off ways the new coverage would work.  The only head not nodding in the room was mine.  I tried to tune out him and the related pain from hearing about how soon newborns needed to be added for coverage (don't forget! 30 days within date of birth) by filling in the mountain of new forms but each page contained a request for dependent names. GARRGH! I HAVE NO DEPENDENTS, I wanted to scream.

The discussion and spotlight shifted then to a very pregnant colleague who requested more details about whether the dollars in her flexible spending account could be applied to daycare and whether short term disability insurance could be used in conjunction with her maternity leave and/or the family leave act. That's when I had to clench my teeth or risk yelling out, WHAT ABOUT THOSE OF US WHO NEVER GET TO TAKE MY MATERNITY LEAVE!?

But I didn't scream then nor when Mr. Consultant Man assured everyone that whether we had one child or 10 the family deductible amount remained the same.

It just didn't seem like the right time to ask: What about those of us who can't have children? Do we get a rebate? Is there a consolation prize?

        

Now that the jetlag has lifted I've been able to replay scenes from my recent trip with some new clarity. Along with the replay came something of an "ah ha" moment. The "ah ha" was crystallized by another post about friendship by Deathstar (she is tapping into my subconscious left and right these days!)

So the "ah ha" is this -- and there's a bit of irony, too: when I'm with other infertiles or friends without children I never, ever think about infertility.

In fact it's the most blissful time I ever spend. It's like gaining access to a very special sanctuary. I'm fully at peace.  There's no anticipation of baby talk, parenting talk or unexpected pregnancy announcements. There's no likelihood of little ones tugging on my heart strings running up and planting a big hug or kiss on their mommy or daddy followed by a cuddle and gaze that communicates a deep, deep bond. There's no awkwardness, no need to be on guard. The conversation flows without the pressing need to change subjects or to sit quietly when the topic goes to a place about preschools, the skyrocketing cost of tuition or the challenge of juggling multiple children's activities and school commitments.  It just doesn't enter into the equation.

My dear friends and family who have crossed into the realm of parenthood (most effortlessly) do their best to keep the topics of conversation relevant when we're in the mix, and in the same way, I make the effort to talk about our areas of mutual interest. I'm not asking for special treatment nor are they.  Yet it's inevitable that talk veers to the challenges of parenting and kids. How can it not? It's a huge, huge part of their existence. 

By contrast, during a visit with some German friends (also without children) we filled an entire day with wine tasting, passionately debating politics, strolling happily through the winding streets of a university town, comparing our favorite books and movies in a coffee house, and later over dinner comparing the advantages and disadvantages of living in different places. It was HEAVEN! 

It was a little like being a kid again myself -- not a care in the world -- just living in the moment and reveling in the feeling of being totally understood, and not once did that weird feeling of being an outsider lurk around the edges. I can only imagine that it's the same feeling for new mothers and fathers who find enjoyment and relief in sharing a different kind of communal experience. 

Our day of hanging out was memorable for a whole bunch of reasons, but also for this lesson: our childfree life today is not better or worse, it's just different and it can be its own sort of special.

A look at some souvenir snapshots of the trip can be found here.

        

I can't help but wonder if there will ever come a day when the shadow of infertility doesn't follow me wherever I go. I get that there's always going to be a pregnant woman or baby unexpectedly showing up in my periphery. And I've come to accept that when I catch sight of them I'm going to ache some, but infertility thoughts in long abandoned palaces?

It's hard to miss the importance of progeny -- and the inevitable mulling of what my life would have been like in a different time and place -- when surrounded by larger than life portraits depicting the lineage of once powerful rulers. Their very future and ability to exert influence depended on successfully mating and reproducing.  The piercing eyes staring down at me from ornate walls brought back to mind a scene in the HBO series Rome. I cringed when I first heard Cleopatra whisper to Caesar, "a man with no sons has no future."

Sure, it's the 21st century but the importance of fertility still matters greatly. In countries with declining birth rates there are generous incentives to encourage baby-making.  These pro-natalistic policies may not always work to encourage large families, but the fact that they're in place says something about the value of fertility -- and sends a strange message to those who can't conceive. It's hard not to feel, well, devalued.

On my way out of visiting the last palace on our trip I had a new appreciation for Japan's Princess Masako and the intense pressure she faced to produce an heir.  It's hard enough to deal with the heartbreak of infertility in private, quite another to have to face it along with the judgment and disappointment of prying eyes -- whether in the 1700s or today. The palaces may be emptying out but we still have a long way to go to shake loose those crusty but powerful views from the past.

        

Just a brief post as I start my last full day in Berlin. Now for those curious about whether I took a holiday from the whole infertility thing, that was certainly my intent. So many distractions, Gasthäuser and sites to visit. Then out of the blue -- during a walk through another, smaller German city center -- WHAM!

You'll see what I mean in a minute. (By the by, when you get a few minutes drop by Deathstar's blog for a great riff on what it means to be how shall we say ... occupied with a certain topic?)

Now as I finish my coffee and drive-by post, here's your assignment -- a different sort of Rorschach Test.

Look at the following images (found all around Germany). Quick ... what flashes to mind as you see these signs:


                                                  

Okay. Now this one:

                                                  

Me? The first sign prompted this thought: Damn! Really? You want to remind me (on vacation, no less?) that I have no little hands of my own to hold?

And the second one? Ah, this must be the entrance to the Infertility Zone.

        

Now where did I put that juicer? I know it's here somewhere.

While it may not seem apparent from some of my more recent posts -- which have dwelled on the darker side of infertility -- I have also been in search of balance. So it's time, again, to put into practice the adage that when life hands you lemons you make lemonade.

Sometimes it takes longer for me than I'd like to retrieve the juicer -- other times not so much.

For example, after the disbelief dissipated following a single line on a pee stick or a phone call announcing a negative beta, it was the equivalent of "Miller Time." Pregnant women are advised to abstain from certain beverages. But a "not pregnant woman" can do what she likes. So I'd mix a strong gin and tonic (with a twist of lime) or pour a glass (or more) of wine. The next morning I usually followed with a stiff cup of coffee, also a preggers no-no.

So today I remind myself that my mommy peers might have achieved one thing I couldn't but they are also tied to mind-numbing feeding schedules, potty training, homework assignments, play dates, soccer schedules and the like.  Me? I wouldn't know the right car seat from the wrong car seat if it hit me in the head. Rather than checking out the latest in kid essentials or doing another load of laundry I have a different, more appealing assignment -- like wondering what awaits me in Berlin and Paris.

That's right I'm off to pack my bags. Mr. PJ has business that takes him to Europe. He discovered American Express has a buy one, get one free airfare offer.  I'll be riding shotgun. 

Passport. check. Walking maps. check. Stylish shoes. check.  This also means I won't be posting again until mid-April. I expect I'll check in on a few blogs while I'm killing time in airports, but the rest of the time I'll be on the ground exploring the streets, sights and sounds of a world apart.

Yes, April in Berlin and Paris with the best man on the planet. Hands down, that's the most alluring play date I've heard of lately...

À bientôt mes amis!