In a desperate attempt to exercise some feeble illusion of control over the sweeping forces of destiny, I have decided to treat myself like a marble temple swept out, garnished and perfumed by acolytes for this two week wait. I am not taking any kind of NSAID (I did crack and take a few paracetamol for I have a nasty cold, thank you, but I think they’re Allowed. Paracetamol, that is. I doubt colds are). And, get this, this is really important, I have given up coffee.
Yes, I know. Coffee. And me the Coffee-Queen of South-East London.
I normally only drink one cup a day (and one or two cups of tea), so I was cheerfully trundling through life in a caffeinated way, ignoring all the ‘coffee-drinkers are dooming their embryos’ bollocks pouring through the media (this is the BBC’s moderate, sensible take on it all). Seriously, there was no way I was drinking 300 mg of coffee. No way. Not my problem.
Um. Then I actually had a little think about the actual coffee quantities I’ve actually been drinking for the past couple *cough* of months, and, err, and, well, I’m giving up coffee for the 2ww. Oh, I know caffeine merely raises a insert-random-percentage-because-I-swear-doctors-make-this-shit-up (allegedly) risk to a slightly-bigger risk, but, you know, I can control my caffeine intake. I can’t control any other crapola going on, I can’t make H’s sperm get all the way up to the fallopian tube in fighting trim, I can’t make the damn egg talk to any of them, I can’t make the egg genetically magnificent, nor can I weed out any genetic slackers H has provided, I can’t get any given zygote bloody well divide and keep dividing and implant and talk chorionic talk. But by heck I can make that endometrium veerrrrry sliiiiightly less toxic.
By ‘eck, it’s making me tetchy, though.