I have Bloggers Block.
What I want, is to write something (something? anything!) of searing beauty, or utter hilarity, or elegant irony, or intense meaning, or, of course, all four because the English Language, she is my bitch.
What we’ve got is a sort of low-grade flu of the intellect. Up with which I shall have to put. You don’t. You can stop reading, you know. Lucky you.
Things that are occurring in Baby-Quest, Endless edition, personal file: nothing much. The lady-parts announced that they were feeling frisky a couple of days ago, it’s now day 18, if the established pattern is followed I shall ovulate sometime in the next two or three days. H and I have been etc.. It’s not very interesting any more, though, is it? It was massively, wildly exciting the first few times, but now it’s more a vaguely amused sense of ‘there it is again. Everything still working? Good-oh,’ while knowing full well if it stopped I’d be MIGHTY PISSED OFF. I should make it clear at this point that I am talking about the ovulating, not the sex. Or am I? Heh. (Sweetie, I’m joking! Of course I meant the ovulating! Sweetie? H?)
Baby-Quest, Endless edition, public files: H bumped into a cousin of mine and went for coffee with her, to discuss, well, everything – she’s a lovely woman and she and H get on beautifully, always a bonus in my decidedly Hard Work family. She also had trouble with reproducing, eventually did IVF (successfully), and then adopted. She knows something of our woes, and H was giving her the ‘no news yet, The Professor says Keep Trying, Aspirin On Standby’ update, but didn’t give her the full list of miscarriages, because, well, it sucks to talk about it, and this was a quick coffee, I assume (H? Correct assumption?), which laid him open to the ‘you’re both still young!’ speech. OK, so said cousin is older than me and was older than me when she did IVF. But I am 36 in a couple of weeks time and I am NOT still young, reproductively. I just am not. And I don’t know how many more dead embryos and painful ‘nope!’ cycles I can take anyway. H did point out that my insides are super-borked and the pain and damage is putting a brisker time-limit on the process, and cousin was all sympathy and kind words, and they parted on excellent terms. And I know cousin only said ‘you’re still young!’ because she was older and succeeded, so from her point of view it’s perfectly true.
But I feel very old and crappy and scared.
Oh, I know, my CD3 FSH was normal, and my AMH is good, and my mother didn’t hit the menopause until her 50s. I know. I know, OK? But given that I can’t seem to produce a normal egg for love nor money anyway, and given that egg-quality gets worse year on year from here-onwards, it’s not much consolation. And too much consolation. Not much hope, but a little spark of it, bitterly unconquerable. So we go on trying. And perhaps it’d be better if we didn’t.
Meanwhile, on Planet F*c*Book, I have been dismally startled (is it even possible to be ‘dismally startled’? Well, it is now) by the amount of British people banging on and on about Mothers’ Day – change your status picture for Mothers’ Day! Repost this [drivelling piece of sentimental crap] for Mothers’ Day! Honk if you love your mother! Mothers are the most wonderful humans on God’s green earth because they reproduced, which makes amoebas FABULOUS as they do it all the time!
Fair enough and carry on to all peoples for whom it really is their calendar-sanctioned Mothers’ Day (which does seem to be about half the population of the planet, I admit). I have no beef with a national day for going ‘Yay! Mums!’. I bought my mother flowers and a cake for Mothering Sunday myself, and a card, and visited her and wished her a happy Mothering Sunday and gave her a kiss and a hug and told her I loved her and then helped her make nine million cucumber sandwiches. If it’s Mothers’ Day in your country, in fact, unless your mother really is Mommy Dearest, it’d only be polite to make nice. I know I made my Mum happy. That makes me happy. I am laying in Good Karma.
But fellow Brits? Really, we do not need two Mothers’ Days. We don’t. We certainly don’t need all the smug guilting (‘post this if you love your mother!’). Note, on Mothering Sunday I went to my mother and told her I loved her. Not FB. Certainly not FB when my mother doesn’t even USE FB (that particularly piddles me off. What the hell is the point of half-a-dozen statuses about your deep affection for the woman if she’s never going to see it? Huh? It’s showing off, that’s what it is, and in a civilized internet would earn you 24-hours suspension of online privileges for being a Total Dick).
So I thought, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, and I upped the passive-aggressive guilting ante by putting up a FB status reminding people that a) Mother’s Day is bloody hard for people who have lost their mother or their child, and b) it isn’t even Mother’s Day in Britain. So bloody there.
And now I must go and wash my hair and put my trousers (Trousers! Not pants! In Britain, pants go under trousers!) on. H is taking me out to lunch.