Item – I now have, clutched in my hot little hands (or, rather, cold little hands, given the weather), both an ultrasound appointment (beginning of January) and a follow-up appointment with Miss Consultant (February). Well done, NHS.
Item – I have no reason to doubt that I ovulated last week, and am now probably 5 dpo. Which means the Pee-Sticks of Doom will come out of hibernation at the weekend (hurrah).
Item – I say probably because since Easter, I no longer get a very clear, distinct and painful burning pain when I ovulate. Instead, I get increasing tenderness and random twinges and stabbing pains, yes, but they do not reach a crescendo and stop, they now vaguely fade away. And as the EWCM always took a day or two to dry up, I am now In Limbo as to the exact date, and am currently running on basal body temperature alone, and basal body temperature says Thursday.
Item – Huge almightly melt-down row with H says Friday, but what do my hormones know anyway?
Item – I may have mentioned this before, but am I the only person who loses her tiny mind around ovulation? It’s the most bizarre thing. I am half sex-starved nymphomaniac, horny as a three-balled tom-cat, and half raging harpy. And I’d been under the impression the hormonal surge was supposed to make a lass all flirty and giggly and come-hitherish – I’m snappy and weepy and get-fuckedish. And woe betide the husband who says something ill-considered or unwittingly crass. Oh woe, woe betide him. Especially if he decides to post-pone sex in order to say something ill-considered or unwittingly crass.
Item – Anyway, we went down to my mother’s for the weekend (good golly, it was cold).
Item – We may be having Diva for Christmas (Diva is my youngest sister, for those of you who are now scratching your heads). Mum and her husband are Abroad with various grown-up family members, having a grown-up Christmas, Trouble is taking Minx to see her grand-pa (our father, who art Up North), so unless Diva can convince her very new boyfriend’s family to put up with a random art-student flolloping about the place (bless her, Diva does flollop), we’ll get her. And actually, this will be nice. Diva has mellowed out a great deal, and is a very sweet young woman, and won’t give a monkeys about Doing Christmas Properly etc.
Item – Trouble (the sister closest to me in age, and the only one I share both parents with (there are hordes of us. Hordes and hordes. I just don’t ever feel the need to talk about most of the horde)), on the other hand, has reduced me to a twitching, ranting, nail-biting Judgy McJudgeFace. I snapped at her, over what I thought was a woefully poor bit of parenting, and we had one of those intense, hissy little exchanges, and she went off and sulked for a while, and I sat in the living-room knitting very very determinedly and running the ‘discussion’ through my head eighty-seven times over and in the end, I had to conclude, the only bit I regretted was the bit where I told her not to be a cow (I could’ve phrased that, oh, so much better). For basically, if your seven-year-old is whining incessantly and hasn’t eaten for SEVEN HOURS, the one thing you do NOT do is take her food away to punish her for whining. Right? Right. (Oh, and I regret not realising Minx was hungry earlier myself. It just never occured to me that anyone – or, at least, anyone related to me – could forget to give their child her lunch).
Item – Not that Minx is being systematically starved or anything. Since Trouble finally divorced The Arsehole and went back to college, she and Minx have been living at my mother’s, and between Trouble, Mum, my step-father, Diva (who comes home to get her laundry done and raid the fridge), and the cleaner, Minx has a very healthy diet, is fairly clean if a little un-brushed at weekends, gets her homework done, and so on. She’s clever and popular at school and everything.
Item – But, Trouble tells me, Trouble needs to ‘live her life’ and ‘do her own thing’. At this point in the conversation I leave the room, because I will start shouting. Trouble, I would like to remind Trouble, wanted to get pregnant. (Even by a half-wit sponger without European residency who is still fleecing my family for help with his rent. Goddamnit, she could have kept the baby and ditched him, at least). She told us she was thinking of having a baby before she conceived Minx. We all thought it was a hideously stupid idea, but we hoped motherhood would give Trouble something to grow up for. Apparantly not. And now she treats Minx like a giant inconvenience and neglects her to play with her friends or her art-work. Trouble is 34, by the way. 34. Not 17. She hasn’t been 17 for HALF HER LIFE, so hell knows why she still feels the need to act it.
Item – Insert standard barren rant about being responsible and having a lovely dear good husband and really wanting a child truly madly deeply and the Universe is fucking warped, is what it is. Also, it’d be nice if the next generation of our clan wasn’t made up of neurotic loons with low-self-esteem issues and any number of ludicrous hang-ups brought on by erratic and semi-neglectful parenting.
Item – On the plus side, Trouble and I did kiss and make up, and Trouble was gracious about it, and that made me feel a lot better (though I still wish I hadn’t called her a cow (to her face)).
Item – Joke of the week: Trouble was reading me an article about sex differences (they don’t really exist, by the way. At least, not biologically. But Society and Culture are very powerful things) which quoted the Victorian belief that too much reading and studying would damage a woman’s ability to have children, as her feeble brain would over-heat and divert the vital forces away from her shrivelling uterus. I looked Trouble straight in the eye as she snickered over this and said, dead-pan, ‘well, in my case it’s true.’ Cue hysterical laughter. Boom-tish!