I’m trying to avoid thinking about the Giant Elephant in my corner of the Internets. You know, that thing that starts with a number and whose ending rhymes with ‘hate’ (how appropos). You would think that since this is my 8th one (not counting the other pointless ones where I didn’t know if I ovulated and later learned that it didn’t matter because with my tubes blocked, no egg of mine was going to meet any sperm unless it was in a petri dish) I would have gotten used to it. This isn’t really something you get used to as much as something you tolerate.
I won’t lie and say that I’m blissfully ignorant of the tweakings and twitchings of my nether regions. But rather than just register them and forget them in the space of one second (oh, was that my ovary?) like I do during non-major months, each is now followed by a furious round of The Is-It-or-Isn’t-It-Something-That-Is-Of-Any-Consequence-Whatsoever-Game. And of course, I can’t stop because this is The Big One: the first time since my last miscarriage that we have a real shot at producing a squalling infant who will hopefully not inherit my nose. Sometimes, I even allow it to escalate into thoughts of This Just Might Work.
And, then, I try to talk myself down from the ledge. Hilarity ensues.
I also can’t be blissfully ignorant that I am in That Period Which Must Not Be Named because I have to pretend as if I am pregnant. So, it would seem that my attempt to stick my fingers in my ears and chant “la la la la” all day is not going to work. After two false starts out of the gate where what I ate in the end had nothing to do with how things turned out – I could have drank like a fish both times and still had the same result – it now seems almost like this grotesque charade – no wine, no cheese, no caffeine, no baths, no eating dirt (didn’t do that one anyway), no exercise.
But, do it, I will, if there is even a small chance that I will have a live infant(s) in my arms nine months from now. I still want it.