Item – Look at all my lovely delurkers! Aren’t they amazing and wonderful? Aren’t they the greatest? And, to my delight, such a varied bunch of people, posting fascinating snippets of their own stories (not all of which were tales of TTC woebollockydreariness. I have cross-community appeal, people! Humbled and awed, humbled and awed. Oh yes). Also, the praise? Am pink. Nay, fuchsia. And all giggly and half-in-tears. And I want to throw a party and buy you all Harvey Wallbangers (what? I just like the name. You can have Margaritas if you prefer (or Mojitos. Mojitos are good)).
Item – Meanwhile, in the seemingly endless saga of Zombryo! The Indeterminate Embryo! absolutely nothing is happening. Except the semi-constant mild nausea and near-bludgeoning unconscious of H when he failed to take absolutely seriously my bellow of ‘shut up about the mayonnaise already!’ yesterday lunch-time.
Item – Mayonnaise, at the moment, seems like the most revolting substance on God’s bright earth. And to think a few short weeks ago I would have happily eaten underlay as long as someone spread enough mayonnaise on it.
Item – I am well aware the nausea thing looks like a chirpily positive sign of excellent hormonal progress within. It could just as easily be a hysterical sign of how I keep talking myself first into and then out of feeling sick by winding myself up to fever-pitch over presence/absence of viable embryo in uterus/fallopian tube. I. Have. No. Fingernails. At. All.
Item – I defied the Universe yesterday and went to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with my good friend E (we’ve had the tickets for months. I do not allow my recalcitrant spawn to keep me from my first love, theatre). Oh, it was brilliant. Brilliant! So glad I went. James Earl Jones! Adrian Lester! Squeeee! And, OMFG, did you know it had an infertility sub-plot? And isn’t Mae of the five no-neck monsters (sixth on the way) the mostest prize bitch? E gave me the odd nervous sideways look, but seriously, I was laughing my fool head off. Good times, good times.
Item – I have decided that with the honourable exception of E, who doesn’t even know this blog exists but looked after me like a Lalique figurine yesterday, I met all my best friends on the internet. Exemplum: I declare to various friends I may be having a third (fourth if we’re counting the possible-chemical in September) miscarriage. Internet friends send a myriad texts (hi, HFF!) and emails, and phone me (hi, Sol!) and send me flowers (hi, Ben and Z! They’re beautiful!) and virtual hugs and check up on me constantly and, you know, show they care. Real-life friends? One ‘oh dear’ message in an email concerned, among other things, with how they will probably turn down our invitation to visit and go to the opera in April because they, and I am serious, want to finish putting together their new built-in wardrobes. They know this in January. Why not just add ‘and we’ll be washing our hair,’ and have done with it?
Item – I did make a New Year’s Resolution to be more open and honest about the woebollockydreariness. I have ‘shared’ more in more situations. I must remember that this has been mostly a good positive thing, and that most people have reacted with courtesy and kindness. I will remember this. I must remember this.