In which we are pleased with ourselves

Since when is an infertile woman, attempting to conceive, overjoyed to get her period?

But I am. Despite my charting site’s teasing me with countdowns to Pee On A Stick day.

Because, for the first time since I came off the pill a year ago, and therefore for the first time in nearly ten years (and probably longer, for it’s not as if I went around ovulating spontaneously at the best of times), I ovulated (complete with twingeing and a touch of spotting), my temps stayed above the cover-line for thirteen whole days (as opposed to the blood-sodden pointless nine days of last time), and only on day 15 post-ovulation, did my period start. I did something most other women take so far for granted they aren’t even aware they are doing it. And I was spared all the spotting, break-through bleeding, and strange and horrible little bursts of crimson knicker-ruination (not to mention jeans, chair-seats and bed-sheets). I’ll admit to an issue with continuous EWCM, but like many PCOSers I am probably so ragingly full of oestrogen that I could sterilise a bull with my breath.

I am feeling a little crampy and I have been really quite snappy and irritable this morning, but even that delighted me. If not my husband. Look! PMS! Normal! It’s marvellous! Now stop sodding talking to me or I’ll saw your head off with this spoon!

Next step, losing the tummy. I look like a feather bed stuffed into a pair of trousers. Today’s bar of chocolate doesn’t count – it was organic.

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