I am so impressed with all your contributions on my last post, Gentle Readers. You are such lovely wise people, and I Big Puffy Heart you all. And so does H.
The thing about my In-Laws (a thing Robyn was very wise about in her splendid comment), is that they would make absolutely perfect grandparents. They would dote on the child, they would be loving and fun and no doubt would be daftly indulgent at times (which is all the more fun and a great bonding experience). And they are also reasonably sensible about such matters as a bazillion sweeties and being quiet when the grown ups are talking, darling, so I would, I do, feel quite sanguine about their involvement in the putative kid’s life. My own grandparents were either rather distant and preoccupied, or rather stern and uncuddly, or, ah, dead. Nevertheless, the stern grandmama was also the one I loved best, because for all her disciplinary ways, she loved us and invested a great deal of time and trouble in us, and for all she was a little scary, she was also safe as a cathedral. And there. I digress, but it’s important to me that the little sesame seed has other grown ups about who prove to him/her over and over that s/he is family. And loved. And worth time and attention. And H’s parents would give that in spades. So in the end, if I have to suck up a certain amount of non-apology and undealingness, I will suck it. Bitch wildly about it here, no doubt, but otherwise, suck it.
In aid of this mellowness, came a little gift from my MiL, along with a little note to tell me she was thinking of us.
My own beloved-but-impossible Mama, whereas, has earnt a great deal of kudos chez May because, after an appalling start near the beginning of our Great Pregnancy Quest as Sayer of Hurtful Dumbass Things In Chief, she made an effort to listen, understand, and empathise as best she could. And though she can still be tactless, she is trying not to be. The armfuls of cash she keeps trying to force on us for infertility treatment, for example – she cares, she has money, she throws money at problems until they go away. And I think she would relish simply being a loving granny – in my niece Minx’s case she has often had to be Sole Responsible Adult while practically babysitting Trouble as well as Minx, and Trouble’s arsehole ex into the bargain.
The Plan, such as it is, for The Tellening goes now as follows:
- The Scan is on the 15th. Ideally, we tell everyone after the Scan. We tell regardless of whether we get lovely news or tragic news, because everyone knows we are doing IVF this Summer.
- The hitch is that my mother has invited us to spend the day with her the weekend before the Scan. Therefore, we will almost certainly tell her then. And BEG her to keep schtum until after we tell the In-Laws. Tell no one! Not even the Aunts! They talk to In-Laws! However, it’ll only then be a few days until the Scan, and we will explain that a) H wants to tell his parents himself (this is not exactly true – he’s dreading it, but feels it is His Duty, and they will appreciate it) and b) we don’t want to worry them with uncertainty for so much as a second if we can help it after all the stress and bereavement they’ve been through in the past few years. Especially as FiL is a Great Blurter and there is H’s remaining frail champion worrywart grandmother to Not Worry.
- We will then tell my Dad, and let the Bush Telegraph deal with family outliers.
- You guys who read this blog know already.
- Other friends will be told as and when we see them. May be sooner rather than later as that wee fecker Cute Ute is so large thanks to the adenomyosis, I have already ‘popped’.
- I have several infertile friends on FuckBook, and also several acquaintances and distant family whose attitudes to these things I do not care for, therefore we are keeping this off FuckBook for as long as feasible, so as not to turn my newsfeed into a river of bitterness and humiliation. For me or them. Thank you.
- Work? Well. I’ll be completely outed by Tuesday if my boss doesn’t give over the shenanigans. I shall adopt a stoical expression also I shall practice saying ‘it’s not your business, but if it ever does become your business I’ll be sure to let you know.’ And pray I don’t vomit or pass out.
Normal symptoms: Slight nausea, worse when hungry; sensitivity to smell; metal mouth, constant, irritating; tired, sleepy all the time; breasts becoming increasingly tender and itchy, now with added nipples; very, very, very tragically bloated about the middle, and retaining water like a cactus; speaking of cacti, about as prickly (had ridiculous meltdown this morning and cried because H had slightly misled me about whether he was going to be 30 seconds or 5 minutes fetching his iPhone. In retrospect, most of the meltdown was about people not being honest with me, so I think the telling white fiblets to family about timings etc. to buy ourselves wiggle room was a no-goer. I have issues about honesty. Great big stupid ones. This is what happens when an entire family spends generations lying to each other ‘for your own good’. BUT I DIGRESS).
Weird, or are they? symptoms: Despite sleepiness, insomnia and a tendency to wake at six am in a state of anxious gloom (we’re blaming Prednisolone and PTSD); As I mentioned above, Cute Ute, starting from the size of a ten week pregnancy as she was, has already popped above my pelvic bone and can not only be clearly felt by laying a hand just below my navel, but has already got together with the squishy bloat to make my jeans too tight and my figure look decidedly *pregnant* already; episodes of dizziness (surely five weeks is a bit bloody early for fainting fits?).
Meanwhile, H is having more and worse anxiety dreams than I am.