Item: The people who know I have yet another degree now – you who read this. Some work colleagues. One good friend IRL. Some internet buddies elsewhere.
Item: The people who do not know I have yet another degree now – my mother. Anyone in my family at all, for that matter. H’s family. Some IRL friends.
Item: I have not, in fact, spoken to my mother since the ‘As for getting pregnant, I can’t think of anything more exciting!’ email she sent in reply to H’s very carefully worded one about how, and why, Christmas would suck dirty great arse for us this year and so we were not Going Skiing with her, my sisters, their boyfriends and husbands, the niece, and one Monopoly board between us, thank you for asking.
Item: I haven’t spoken to my Dad either, but that is perfectly normal for us.
Item: I raised the subject of IVF with H. H not keen. May rather more keen, but not exactly gagging for it. If it turns out the One and Only Tube really has been summarily renamed World’s Worst Waterslide, the question of IVF, exactly when, how much, and who’s freakin’ paying will no doubt recrudesce.
Item: My mother has on many occasions announced her desire to help us out financially with something – a down-payment on a house, orthodontic work, private fertility clinics, two weeks in the Black Forest being whipped with birch twigs and lectured in German about oats and chakras, whatever we want. This has a lot to do with the fact she was well-off growing up, bone-achingly poor as a young mother, and now her kids have grown, well-off again (this all due to interesting (and multiple) marital choices, bless her). She just wants to give us stuff. So if we wanted £3000 for a private go, she would almost certainly shower us in banknotes.
Item: In fact, she’d probably get more gung-ho than I could and have me kidnapped and sent to Germany so a very serious hippy in a white lab-coat can sing to my uterus during the two-week-wait.
Item: Did I mention I am not speaking to her at the moment? I wonder if she has realised yet.
Item: If I now stiffen my upper lip and reopen communications, it will seem, to me, that I am doing it as an insurance policy in case World’s Worst Waterslide is a horrible reality. And not because I love my mother.
Item: I feel more like a blackbeetle than ever.
Item: Currently on antibiotics that threaten to burn my insides out like napalm if they feel so inclined, courtesy of the HSG – they’re prophylactics, you see, giggle giggle. So if Satsuma develops a spirit of devilment and pops one out in the next few days, should we let it float out to sea (or not, see possible WWW) unhindered? Or should we reason that the antibiotics will be out of system by implantation day and bang like barn doors in a gale? Why am I bothering to wonder about this? Since when will it become relevant? On Friday, Satsuma was fast asleep, remember?
Item: Given that WWW is an alarming possibility (oh God, roll on the counselling, I have run out of fingernails and the ends of my hair are starting to look upsettingly hay-like), should I ever have sex again ever under any circumstance? Is an unblocked hydrosalpinx a real absolute shit of a problem, or does it merely make things more unlikely, or is the faff all about the increased risk of ectopics, or what? Yes, I know, I must wait and hear what Miss Consultant says.
Item: See that four-letter-word there? The one beginning with ‘w’? Oh, do I have to spell it out again. W – A -I – T. That word and I have had it. I have ripped it out of the dictionary, along with everything from ‘waggon’ to ‘wake’.