Getting predictable

I woke up this morning and it felt like my boobs were ready to explode.

Walking bra-less from the bedroom to the bathroom - a journey of no more than 6 steps - had to be done with one hand clutching each breast to minimise the pain. (Luckily I only have two breasts unlike Diana of Ephesus here)

Showering, or more exactly, shaving my spider-pits was tricky as lifting my arm over my head was torture.

It is also drizzling outside in sharp contrast to the beautiful spring weather we've had for the past week.

Which leads me to draw one of two conclusions:

a) My mammary glands had developed a new skill, much like an old lady's bunions or a gammie leg, and have started to twinge when there is a change in the weather.

or

b) I am about to get my period after having no action down there since the start of April. My first 'proper' minera-induced period.

There is something comforting about knowing that, even if it is hormone induced fakery, my body is getting into some kind of rhythm again. That or hell is preparing to freeze over.

And for those of you who have nothing better to do than wonder how long I have until the bit of plastic cluttering up my womb is removed I've added a handy countdown to the left. Not quite the baby ticker that adorns so many blogs but the best I can do just now - and I'm presuming you wouldn't want a more graphic visualisation of just what is happening in my uterus.

(Secret D, in answer to your comment on my last post I can't do a countdown to IUI because until they go in and check the coil has done its job satisfactorily and then worked when I can start stimulating those ovaries I don't know when IUI will happen).

A Bit Tenuous

I'm not superstitious.

Take Rabbits feet - I figure that if a rabbit has lost its feet then it is hardly lucky. So I don't hold any stock with that old wives tales.

And I don't walk under ladders if I think that a builder is going to drop paint on my head or look down my cleavage - not because I think that it is bad luck.

My lucky underwear simply consists of things that don't have to be turned inside out to be clean.

But I have found, certainly before I had to have the coil inserted and sex might had produced an offspring, I was touching wood much more frequently than previously. (Make of that what you will.)

The other thing that I cannot help but react to is magpies. Do you know that rhyme?

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl
Four for boy

To counteract this 'curse' of the one magpie you have to salute the magpie. So I find myself, just casual like, brushing my hair out of my eyes. And coughing out "Morning Mr Magpie". Then I see two and I'm convinced that good things'll follow.

What is it that convinced me? When my sister was pregnant she called me after her 20 week scan:
"Guess the sex?"
I looked up there were 4 magpies perched on a tree, normally two is the maximum.
"A boy"
"How did you know?!"
"The magpies told me. Now I have believe them on everything."

So it is a bit tenuous but, talking of counting rhymes, nip over to Fertility Authority and check out my top ten of infertility.

TEN-uous, geddit?

Oh, never mind, I'm wasted on you lot. Wasted I tell you.

My family is growing

I mentioned a while ago that I have a few godchildren - three to date.

On Saturday I received an email from one of my closest, most long-standing friends, who lives in a different town so we don't see each other as much as I'd like.

She asked me to be godmother to her son, ODV.

This is how she started the email:

"I've been meaning to phone you about this for quite a while but keep wimping out. I was wondering if you would be willing to be O's god mother? I know you probably need it like a hole in the head at the moment and the thought of having to buy baby gifts and coo over someone elses baby is the last thing you fancy but in the longer term I'd really like him to have you."

This is a life time commitment and one that I'm sure she hasn't chosen lightly. To say I am flattered is an understatement. And, of course, I said yes immediately.

I love the way she is thinking of the longer term she knows I'll have children one day, and doesn't want the fact that this year, next year, the year after (please no!) might be difficult to prevent me being his godmother for ever.

But what this email did was made me really proud of my friends. I've read on so many different blogs about people whose friendships have been severely strained by having to commiserate about pregnancy symptoms or forced to go to the baby showers (shudder) of casual acquaintances.

In contrast, the support of my child-bearing friends has been brilliant. They know what I am missing out on and don't try and make me feel better by telling me how lucky I am to be able to go out when I want and how I should appreciate lie-ins. But neither do they exclude me and avoid mentioning the word baby just in case I can't cope.

I just wonder if they realise that should the worst happen, and I don't have children, they are condemning their kids - my god children - to looking after me in my dotage.

That, and I'm rubbish at choosing presents for children between the ages of 8 and 16.

The Classics Reworked

Need a good book to take on holiday this year?

How about one of these:

• The Sperm Count of Monte Cristo
• War and Pee-sticks
• Madame's Ovaries
• All Quiet on the Baby Front
• The Old Man and The Seaman
• The Double Line of Beauty
• A Womb with A View
• A Clockwork Ovulation
• The Lovely Bone
• The Fall and Rise of BBT
• Confessions of an English Ovulation Beater
• Loves Labour's Lost (that one doesn't even need any work - you can always rely on good ol' Shakespeare)

And one for our Doctors:

• Another Cunt (sorry Sarah, I know you don't like the word, but I figure it is time to reclaim it)

Got any other suggestions?

(Nuts in May as the professional bookist amongst us I'm expecting great things from you!)

Slow News Day

You know it is a slow news day when the papers churn out one of the following:

• Red wine / chocolate is good / bad / indifferent for you
• Postcard delivered 114 years after it was first posted!!!! (note the number of exclamation marks, the journos are simply trying to fill some kind of word count)
  
• Scientists think they have discovered a new way to encourage Panda's to mate in captivity

And

• The cost of raising a child has risen to an astonishing ...

If you can't be bothered to click through allow me to highlight two salient facts that will no doubt depress you. (Look, if I have to suffer so do you).

The average child costs more than £18,000 before its first birthday. Of course anyone who is having to fund IVF will know there is a good chance of it costing that before its birth day.

Parents-to-be spend an average of £311 trying to conceive. Wow, I didn't know Bacardi breezers and malfunctioning condoms had got so expensive.

And then it goes on to say what the cost of clothes, toys and equipment costs for the babies. And this, is where I think we have the upper hand.

Having been left standing whilst my friends and relations produce babies I figure I am going to clean-up when it comes to hand me downs.




Just so long as my child, when it decides to turn up, doesn't coincide with their third or fourth.

****

On the personal front it has also been pretty slow. No bids on the Dyson, 83 bloody views and not one bid - anyone would think I was just selling a bit of junk that is no good to anyone. But I'm still hanging out for the last minute sniper bid.

And I am really trying not to think about the fact that it has now been well over a year since I last knowingly ovulated / had a realistic chance of getting full of arms and legs.

And if you think the images are getting more and more random of late it is because my conscience has been pricked and I feel a bit guilty about nicking images from the internet. So I have been trying to use own pictures to illustrate my posts. And you know snails, slow news day ... It sort of works.

Going, Going ... gone?

I've finally done it.

If you read my Fertility Authority post you'll know I have a broken vacuum cleaner cluttering up my spare room.

Well, hopefully not for much longer.

I've used all today's creative juices writing my eBay post.

So this is all I can muster. A sign in my local newsagents window.

What do you reckon the story behind this one is?

Waterworks

"Wuz up? Why you crying?"

I'm crying because you want me to reverse into that tiny gap between two pristine looking cars.

I'm crying because I hate driving and thought I'd finished the last of it when, as I was parking, I mounted the curb and ripped the wheel (actual picture ->).

I'm crying because it is a hire car and we face a penalty if we get it back late and we have half an hour to return it to the drop off point.

I'm crying because a new tyre is going to cost £75.

I'm crying because the husband and I are so mechanically illiterate that we had to phone my brother-in-law to get him to come and put the spare on so I could drive to the garage.

I'm crying because I've just picked up the dog from the kennels and if there is one thing on earth that gets more nervous than I get driving in central London, it is the dog in the back of a car being driven through central London.

I'm crying because despite being a strong independent woman (in theory) I can't help, at times like this, feel a little aggrieved that the husband has never learnt to drive.

I'm crying because my confidence is shot.

I'm crying because I am angry at myself for bursting into tears in the forecourt of my local Kwik Fit whilst the mechanic looks at me in disbelief.

I'm crying because I know this is pathetic.

Still, I managed to jump the queue, get the mechanic to reverse the car for me, get a new tyre on and be back the drop off point with 3 minutes to spare.

Sometimes its not all hard to be a woman.

*****

Oh, and if you were looking for something more fertility related my next post is up on Fertility Authority. Check it out!

Why I will never understand my husband

TV guide.

Arsenal vs Villareal

Him, excited: "Oh, oh, oh, can we put it on?" Puppy dog eyes "Please"

Me: "Yeah" (secretly loving the fact he is so well trained that he is asking me permission, and I hold the power to make his dreams come true).

Him, switching over: "Shit, fuck, urgh" (Arsenal are one nil down already).

In the 14 minutes it has been on I've heard:

Cunt
Bag'o'shite
Ooof
Nooo
Come on
Oh, fuck off
Balls, balls, fucking balls
Stop writing down everything I say

And he actually wanted to watch this?

Turkish Delight

Empty

The house is quiet.

I can't hear the little pitter-patter of tiny feet.

There is no one relying on me to ensure they are fed and watered.

I'm not typing this whilst a cold, wet nose prods at my arm.

The dog has gone.

But never fear. It is just for a few days whilst we spend the weekend with friends in Istanbul.

I'll be back early next week. Hopefully refreshed, rejuvenated and mint tea'd up to my eye-balls.

And I'm also hoping the little fucker won't remember that he'd just learnt how comfortable our bed is. (Maybe taking a photo rather than telling him off wasn't the wisest way to drive that message home.)

***

In other news, the bad side effects of the coil seem to have completely stopped. But it still appears to be doing a sterling job at emptying out my womb, if the present I found in my undies today is anything to go by.

But it'll be a while before I can stomach redcurrant jelly again.

(The husband just read that and forced me to publish an apology: I'm sorry).