Monday, 27 October 2014

The Sweet Spot

This month was the sweet spot.

If I had got pregnant this month I would be on target for that coveted 2 year gap between children.

You'll notice already I used the past tense. I'm going to dispense with the suspense; I'm not pregnant.

I am, however, on my fourth period since restarting that particular ladies treat. Bizarrely I seem to be menstruating, and therefore I guess ovulating, like a pro. Almost to the day on schedule.

I haven't called the Doctor to get a frozen embryo bunged back in, even though a couple of months ago I was fixed on October for getting back on the medicalised conception track. I haven't for a number of reasons.

Really rational, sensible reasons:
  • I want to get back in to the swing of work before I have another nine months of morning sickness
  • I need to save a bunch of money to afford to do it again
  • As I seem to be ovulating I should give the old fashioned approach to procreation a few more months.
But they aren't the real reasons. The real reason I haven't called the Doctor is because, at the moment, I have two frozen embryos waiting to become a baby (/babies). 

At the moment I have hope, time and anticipation on my side. As soon as one goes back in, if it fails, I then only have one more chance, and once that is used up there will be no more IVF - it is my last chance.

I want to keep the possibility of a second kid alive. Not doing a pregnancy test after IVF is like not opening the envelope with your exam results in it because until you know for sure you can still imagine the best possible result. I am doing the conception equivalent of not even taking the exams - despite doing all the required revision. Until I turn over that test paper I can still believe I'll pass with flying colours.

This metaphor is getting a bit tenuous isn't it?

Basically I am pretty much assuming that my next frozen embryo transfer won't work. I have no reason for assuming this, and I have an excellent reason sleeping upstairs for believing it will.

I would love a second kid, less for me this time but more because I think siblings are really important. My two sisters are absolutely brilliant - my friends, confidants, shoulder to cry on, person to celebrate with - and I can't imagine being without them.


Sorry, I've just remembered they sometimes read this blog.

Obviously I meant to say:

They are fine. OK, really. Tolerable even. And it is nice to know that it won't just be me responsible for my Dad in his dotage - I'll palm the care home expenses off on them.

It is an odd feeling trying for a second. Despite being older I don't have the same feeling of panic I had before Olive. Then I was worried that I was going to be too old a Mum, since I've met plenty of Mums older than me, and I seem to be less mature than many who are younger. I really want another child but I don't have that same desperation as before.  So I'm going to wait a little longer, try the old fashioned way and  I have little doubt that won't work, so I will try again with a frozen embryo transfer, but there is no immediate rush.

I might have missed the sweet spot, but who cares about a few months here or there in the long term? 

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

A Traumatic Incident

Apparently a good way to exorcise traumatic incidents is to write about them. It can help you shelve that particular episode and achieve, my favourite Americanism, closure.

Something happened a few months ago that I thought I was over, until I had to relive it yesterday telling my mother-in-law. Just talking about it dragged me back. I think the only way to truly put it to rest is to write it down here.

It was the Sunday at the end of this glorious holiday. We were home and the impending specter of normality was looming. In a last attempt to clasp onto the holiday vibe for just a few short hours more the husband and I decided to go out to lunch, with Olive.

A new restaurant had opened nearby which had had good reviews so we decided to give it a go.

It started off well, in that we got a table. It went downhill from there.

No sooner had we sat down and ordered our starters than Olive made her presence know in the smelliest possible way. I had cunningly manoeuvred myself into a position, squeezed into a corner, that made the husband the obvious choice for changing her nappy.

I felt rather smug as I handed her over.

The husband returned ten minutes later.


In no uncertain terms he told me next time our darling, radiant daughter needed her nappy changed it was my turn.

My turn came far too quickly just as we'd finished the starters an unholy stench filled the room.

I grabbed the changing mat and took her to the loos. There was no handy pull down changing table, the two toilets were minute, the only option was to plonk our changing mat on the floor outside the (thankfully empty) cubicles in the tiny area where the sinks are.

I unpeeled her vest as it was stuck to her with the cement of liquified poo that her nappy had had no chance of containing. The poo continued to drip on the mat that I had been about to lay Olive down on, on to the floor, on my hands.

I didn't know where to start with the tsunami of shit. So decided to tackle the mat first.

Olive scurried off on all fours into one of the cubicles.

I ignored her as I wiped the mat down, and the floor and the bit of skirting board that had been sullied. I looked up and saw a delighted looking Olive sitting, naked, a few yards away in a freshly laid pool of poo. At least, I figured, it couldn't get any worse.

The automatic lights, installed to save electricity, clearly couldn't register a tiny baby and a woman crouching on the floor. They flicked off. It was now pitch black.

It had got worse.

I threw a hand up in the air waved.


I stood up and jumped around.


I could hear Olive moving about but was completely disorientated.

I had to edge towards the door not knowing if I was about to step on my daughter, or worse, step in poo.

I opened the door the lights came on.

Olive had moved from the first cubical into the second leaving a distinctive trail in her wake.

Eventually I managed to grab her. Wipe her down. Put a nappy on her. And using most of my remaining baby wipes cleaned the floor as best I could.

The vest and nappy went in a bag in the bin.

I didn't have a spare vest so pulled her little jeans back on her and had to do the walk of shame back through the restaurant clutching a bare chested baby looking not unlike Vladimir Putin on one of his outdoor pursuit activities.

The husband had almost finished his main course.

I can't tell you what my food tasted like. I just wanted to eat it and get out of there. I also felt I should warn the staff about the smell in the ladies loos so I went to the bar area and collared a guy.

I confided in a member of staff "I'm really sorry but I've just had to change my baby in the loos and it sort of ... went everywhere. I've tried to clear it up as much as possible but it might be worth giving it a quick mop."

The guy nodded sympathetically then said, "Yeah I work in the kitchen you should tell that man." And he scarpered.

It is embarrassing enough telling one person that your baby has shat all over their new tiles, to do it a second time is mortifying.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur. We left as soon as we could.

I will never go back.

I always said I wanted a baby for shits and giggles. I got the shits, I hope you got the giggles...