Despite the positive OPK on Friday (at 11:47 am, in fact, and ooh, how sad is it that I know that?), and despite the really quite painful pain that afflicted my lower-right-hand abdominal quadrant on Friday night, Satsuma seems to have flipped the LH surge the bird. As of this morning, I seem not to have done anything nearly so interesting as ovulating. Either that, or I am having the Slow Rise to End All Slow Rises, temperature-wise. I currently loathe OPKs and Clomid and the Satsuma, in equal measure. Even H was driven to say, kindly, that he is finding my insides a little tiresome.
And yes, I do know I have PCOS and once had a blood test in which my LH was quite high at about ninety-seven light-years from ovulation, and so an OPK-test is merely a best guess and in no real way indicative of anything at all and in fact, the only way I will ever know for sure I ovulated this weekend is if in nearly ten months time I find an entire human being in my vahaha.
All of this twitchy anxst gloriously aided and abetted by a huge family party yesterday, in which no less than seven aunts, uncles and assorted cousinage asked me if I had kids/ was going to have kids/ wanted kids at all. To all of which, I answered, with absolute truth, ‘we’re working on it.’ This satisfied six out of seven perfectly, who then went on to talk of other things. The seventh, an aunt-by-marriage I hadn’t seen for five years, patted me kindly on the shoulder and looked sympathetic, but we were interrupted by others and I was left somewhat baffled, in that, was I starting to look a little strained? Was a vein beginning to pulse visibly above my left eye? And also, she has three beautiful and charming kids, so, errr, umm? Anything? Nothing? What? And now it will probably be another five years at least until I know, should there be anything to know, or possibly she wanted to ask me about my (absent) father, whose carryings-on often get me sympathetic shoulder pats.
Oh, and of course we were meeting soon-to-be-new additions-by-marriage to the family for the first time, and Minx, my four-year-old niece, was feeling fond of her doting Auntie May, and there was a little explaining to do in that, despite the fact it was my leg she was clinging to like a little candy-pink leech, she was not, in fact, my daughter (her actual mama being the skinny one outside in the rain, smoking with the Cool (and, heh heh, damp) Crowd of cousins and disreputable uncles). This cheered me up immensely. As did the follow-on comment that I am clearly ‘great with little kids!’