Despite spending a couple of my formative years in Germany the husband and I are NOT a scatalogically inclined couple.
Admittedly we did start to develop a slight obsession with excreta when we first got our dog. Mainly because we have to pick up whatever he deigns to leave us. Suddenly the quality of our day could be significantly impacted on depending on whether it was a more liquid day or if he gave us a firmer, and thus easier to collect, offering. We invented our own lexicon - on returning from a walk with the dog we would remark to the other “A perfect self-wiper today” (Not that we ever go as far as wiping his arse but it is good when there is no smear), the antithesis of course is the heavy, shamed-head shake accompanied by the words “weeing from his arse...”
Four years on we no longer feel the need to discuss his daily defecatations, instead the husband has developed more recent obsession with my own output. My swollen uterus has failed to deflated even after being relieved of its 29 eggs. I continue to have the distended belly of a starvation victim (without the accompanying spindly limbs or cheekbones). And if I thought that the plan for a frozen cycle meant that I’d have an easy go of it directly after egg collection I was sorely mistaken (and I use the word 'sorely' advisedly).
To prevent the onset of Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome (OHSS) I am continuing to inject myself with both Cetrotide and Clexane on a nightly basis and I am back on the evil Norprolac. This will continue until I get my period.
The drugs are just one weapon against OHSS. One of the best ways to prevent its onset is the drinking water and lots of it, and making sure that what goes in comes out. If I am drinking and very little comes out this is a danger zone. Hence the husband's sudden obsession with me having a piss. He has taken to following me around flat proffering glasses of water and sending me to the toilet at regular intervals. Which is endearing, if a little wearing.
Still at least it gives us an insight into the kind of parents we will, hopefully, be. You know the ones. Those folk who will happily scream across the restaurant to their offspring: “Have you done a poo-poo?”.