New Year's Resolutions

I don't usually make New Year's resolutions. However, E. is quite fond of doing so, and frequently makes up a list for me, which says things like, "Eat more fruit" and "Run the London marathon". Then I wad up the piece of paper and throw it at his head.

Still, I feel moved, on this one time occasion, to tentatively propose the following:

1. I will stop dribbling disgusting oobleck in the keyboard, such as dinner detritus, cookies, flaking skin.

2. I will refrain from taunting Soper.

3. I will organise a relay team to run the local marathon for charity.

4. I will eat more fruit.

5. I will clean the microwave on a regular basis.

6. I will stop exaggerating the price reductions of the expensive designer shoes I buy- instead of saying I got them for 50% off, I will say it was 25% off.

7. I will comment more on the blogs of others.

8. I will learn how to do proper HTML links and possibly jazz up the blog banner.

9. I will read an "improving sort of book" once in a while, and not just candyfloss chicklit.

10. I will reinstate "Filing Hour", my once-weekly ritual of keeping on top of all the bills and paperwork.

I think that's enough for now, don't you?

Happy New Year to all!

Got grip?

Having spent a few days wandering around extorting myself under my breath to "Get a grip, get a grip," I think I finally have. Got one. A grip, that is.

Part of this comes from the scale of the tsunami disaster in South East Asia. Really, how can that not give me at least some sense of perspective? However, having said that, while it's well and good that I should be able to recognise this, I'd probably be tempted to punch out the lights of anybody who would actually dare suggest it to me. Perspective of that kind seems best when processed through one's own filter, you know what I am saying?

As it happened, I found my grip again at a family Christmas gathering a couple days ago. These events are always something of a pain in the neck, since it involves getting ourselves to an island off the coast of Scotland. Now, before you start sighing at the charming quaintness of such a notion, let me just point out that taking a ferry across choppy, open water in gale force winds in December is NOT a happy folk song of an event. No, no, no. It wasn't too bad going out as long as I stood in the biting cold air looking at the horizon. But then, horror of horrors, the evening service back to the mainland was abruptly cancelled, leaving us stranded at said family members' tiny flat for the night. Other people were already having the sofa bed, which left us with the sub-sofa bed. Groan.

I confess that this did not uplift my mood. For starters, I hadn't packed an overnight bag. No toothbrush, no face wash, nada. As an aside I should comment that I don't know when I turned into such a big weenie about that kind of thing. Once upon a time I used to be quite happy to rough it. I've slept in a number of very odd places during my travels- bus shelter alcoves, garden sheds, graveyards, you name it.

But somewhere along the way that kind of thing has really lost its allure. Along with whatever remnants of natural beauty I might have ever possessed. Trust me, there's a reason I wear stuff like eyeliner and foundation. And it would be different if we were staying somewhere random amongst strangers, who would never have to see my visage again. But not quite such a treat to have to appear bare-faced in front of say, my sister-in-law. Luckily, on this occasion I had some emergency slap to hand in my purse, so I knew all would not be lost, but it still wasn't pretty.

Then there is the small matter of having one's period. I am no shrinking violet, and this is generally no big deal. But eight people sharing one small bathroom, which incidentally has no bin or trash disposal of any kind?

Flushing down the delicate loo pipes is not an option- the horror, if it clogged, would be unthinkable. But what the hell do you do with the discarded, um, product? Wrap it up and try to sneak it into the kitchen trash bag when no one is looking? Oh wait, everyone is milling around outside the kitchen. Throw it out the window? Hide it somewhere and come back for it later? Stash it in one's handbag?

Yeesh.

Finally I decided that I would have to accept that the whole situation was simply going to be generally less than ideal, so I might as well just suck it up. Another mince pie while we watch the news? Oh yes, why the fuck not, thanks. Yes, go on, pour on some of that there cream. More. More cream. I said MORE. Thank you. Another large brandy? Sure. That would be lovely. Oh lookie here, there is my grip, floating in the bottom of the glass.

Having found it, I just hope I can hold onto it for awhile.

Pass the parsnips, we have a plan

I started crying on Christmas Eve, and couldn't stop for awhile. I cried through "The Princess Diaries" and "Shrek" on BBC1. I cried through "Chocolat" premiering on BBC2. And I wept through numbers 40 all the way up to number 1 on the "100 Greatest Christmas Moments" on Channel 4.

E. was at first bewildered, then alarmed, then consoling during this weepfest. It took him a while to notice, so engrossed was he in the orgy of telly watching, but he finally realised I was not simply just upset at Johnny Depp's faux French-Irish accent.

"What's the matter, sweetie?" he asked, giving me a cuddle.

And I blurbled something along the lines of: "WhyforunexplainednobabynofamilyChristmas
whatforClomidbabynoIVFclinicWHAT!"

So. What brought all this on? Well, I could go through the minutiae of our last appointment and what Dr Ticktock said, but honestly, it's too dull, even if you like reading about other people's infertility treatment decision-making process. Let's just say, he talked a lot, for half an hour, and most of it was garbled. It was also like "Infertility, Dick & Jane style", whereas I already have a degree from Google Medical School.

What it boils down to is this:

1. Carry on trying and do nothing medically.
2. Try Clomid for a few cycles.
3. Do an unmedicated IUI.
4. Do a Clomid IUI.
5. Do IVF.

That's it. Our clinic won't do injectable IUIs, so we would have to go someplace else if we wanted to do that. We also have to pay for any treatment from now on, unless we want to wait three years for NHS funding.

These were the things we needed to think through. Namely, where, when, and what.

The "where" comes from the realisation that if we have to pay out of pocket, there is no reason to necessarily stay with our current clinic. We may as well pick a place that suits us in terms of appointment times, waiting lists, location, reputation.

That "when" should become such an issue surprised me. Once upon a time I thought that we would head, all body parts blazing, into an IUI cycle. However, I discovered that I was more than a little taken aback by two things. The first, that we were really going to have to do this, to have medical intervention to get pregnant.

I don't really know why this should have come as a revelation- after all, I have slowly been coming to that understanding over the last year. And for months now, I have been completely embedded in the infantry of others' infertility wars, albeit wearing a flak jacket and clutching a press pass. So I thought I knew exactly what to expect and how to feel about it. But finding out that this is no fire drill, but is really happening- to us- was a shock.

The second thing is I realised I resented the hell out of entering into, and paying money for treatment for a medical problem that is UNEXPLAINED. Never mind the lack of a guarantee it's going to work, nobody can seem to tell us why we need to go through it in the first place. So that was hard.

However, and this is where the "when" merges into the "what" and the "where", there are timetables to consider. We're clearly not ready to embark on IVF. But if we stay at our clinic, we would need to get IVF teed up some months in advance. Dr Ticktock suggested that, regardless of what we decided in the long run, it would do no harm to get a consultation set up at the Ass Con Centre, with a view to starting IVF at a pre-determined date. Say January 2006. Everything else in between could be arranged at relatively short notice, whenever it suited us.

And so the tears, as I pondered all of this. Clomid. IUI. IVF. Statistics. Costs. Clinics. Timetables. My period showed up on Christmas morning, just to add to the sense of frustration and doubt.

Finally, E. and I sat down at Christmas dinner, and talked it all over, as you do, between the brussels sprouts and the roasted potatoes. We agreed to stick to our current clinic. At the end of the day, the options for going elsewhere are somewhat limited in terms of staying in Scotland, and at this point neither of us can quite face the logistical nightmare of treatment down South.

Then E. said what I had been thinking, namely, that we should wait just a few more months. If only so we can feel, with some sort of closure, that we have done our best, and that it is now time to try medical assistance. Agreed.

Finally, "what", in terms of treatments.

"I think we should do a Clomid IUI," E. said.

"That's easy for you to say, " I told him, helping myself to more gravy. "Apart from the whole idea of getting on the treatment rollercoaster, I approach Clomid with a certain amount of dread."

"I know," he admitted. "If you don't want to do it, you don't have to."

For a brief and tantalising moment, option 1-"do nothing medically" danced appealingly in the air. Oddly, there is something so compelling about just carrying on as we have been. About throwing my hands up to the whimsy of egg & sperm, or of fate, or whatever you wish to call it. Of relaxing into the idea that we don't have to be parents, if it never happens on its own.

I looked at E. He looked at me. I took a deep breath.

"OK. March 2005. Clomid IUI. Let's do it."

He reached a hand across the table. And we shook on it, in a strangely business-like, yet comfortingly decisive manner. Forming a contract. Sealing the deal.

Look what Santa brought

We opened one of our presents early, so we could have nice coffee on Christmas morning. Isn't it pretty?



Happy holidays, everyone.

The Tide is High

I have to begin the tale of our trip to the RE today with a bit of background history.

When I was in my freshman year in college, I lived in a big girls' dorm on campus. There was a girl on my floor with some dumb nickname like Snoopy or Flopsy, and she used to always take her portable stereo in the communal shower/bathroom area. There she would play pop music at top volume, which everybody knew was simply a ploy to disguise the fact she was having sex with her boyfriend in the shower.

So one night, quite late, I go into the bathroom, and Poopsy Thingie and whoever she's currently banging are in the shower, as usual. The big room is filled with steam. The stereo is blaring out Blondie's "The Tide is High." It is then that I notice that one of the stall doors is shut, but there is a lake of blood coming from out of that cubicle. The floor is covered with it. The blood is running into the grooves of the tiles, there is so much blood, and Blondie is wailing that the tide is high, she's moving on, she's going be your number one. Number one.

To cut a long and rather gory story short, a classmate was in that stall, in the middle of attempting suicide by slitting her wrists. She was ultimately "fine" in the end, but to this day, I cannot hear that song without imagining that very unpleasant scene and the aftermath. I cannot bear to be in the same room as Blondie's voice.

Fast forward to the present day, and our appointment with the RE this morning. This was our follow-up consultation to talk about where we were at, and the next steps, based on all the tests we both had over the last few months. We sat down in the waiting room, unraveling ourselves from our many layers of outerwear. And what do I hear echoing from the office sound system? Christmas carols? Harpsichords? The Mormon Tabernacle choir?

No. Blondie, fucking Blondie, singing "The Tide is High."

I leaned over to E. and muttered it was a bad omen. He had never heard that story though, so he didn't get it. He made that funny Scottish noise in the back of his throat and went back reading his car magazine.

As it happened, the news wasn't particularly bad. Nor was it particularly "good". My HSG results were, as we knew, normal. Previous bloodwork indicates all is normal with hormone levels and so forth. And interestingly, E.'s latest sperm test revealed his swimmers to be much improved, as compared to the last substandard morphology result. It was, in Dr Ticktock's view, entirely normal.

And so it is there we came to that diagnostic cul-de-sac. I knew which way we were headed. I had been expecting it, but then there it was, all wrapped up and shiny with a big bow on top. Merry Christmas. A diagnosis of "Unexplained."

Or should I say "pigeonholed"? Since that is the word Dr Ticktock used. OK. We have been officially "pigeonholed" into category 'Unexplained'. In my mind, I imagine E. and I folded up like little bits of paper, filed, contorted, in a big row of small square wooden boxes. Pigeonholed.

I need some time to digest what followed on from that. I will post about it once I have had a chance to consider, reflect, and Google until my eyeballs roll backwards in my head, and my fingers wear down to stubby nups.

Episode Three- Return of the Mare

Sometimes, it's the little things that uplift us the most. And for those of you who have followed the Good Desk saga so far, there is now a new installment to resolve this exciting trilogy.

To recap- in Episode One, A New Hope, I revealed how the prospect of improved office seating hung in the balance. But I resolved to let go, to use the Force, and to let the universe guide my steps. Oh, and to basically display a total lack of assertiveness in getting what I wanted.

Insert John Williamsesque soundtrack musak here.

Things then took a dark turn in Episode Two, The Empire Strikes Back as the forces of an evil bureaucracy finally defeated my claim. Frozen in carbonite, I returned to my veal crate to sulk, and shrivel due to lack of natural lighting.

Insert gloomy John Williamsesque soundtrack muzak here.

Then, out of the blue, an announcement of yet another office reshuffle. The desk's occupant was slated for a move to a different department. So, through disciplined Jedi mind control, (and by bribing the secretary with chocolate), I made my move. The Good Desk is now officially mine. I shifted all my files today, and transferred my phone line. My plants are so much happier. I am so much happier.

Insert triumphant John Williamsesque soundtrack muszak here.

But nobody stays at the Good Desk for long. Which must mean that surely I must be about to get pregnant and go on maternity leave?

Scrappy Doo Chubby Belly

I don't know quite what to make of the fact that someone recently found my blog via a search for "Scrappy Doo Chubby Belly."

Even if I have been consuming a lot of mince pies and festive grog lately, it's surely not as bad as that!

A few observations on the festive season from under the palm tree

Well, well, quite the Christmas social whirl here since I got back. What this basically means is going out for lots of overpriced lunches/dinners with friends I haven't seen in a year. Also colleagues, as we are corralled like braying cattle into forced festivities. Invariably, this involves staggering home at midnight having eaten too much rich food and imbided more red wine than is really good for one.

I have to confess, I am having more than a little trouble getting in the Christmas mood this year. Last December, we were in the middle of moving house, so I had the perfect excuse to be all bah humbuggy.

This year? I think it has something to do with being stuck on a certain tropical island. It's a bit like the way I felt in Florida. Hard to get in the swing of the holly jolly holidays while sitting under a palm tree sipping a frosty drink and scanning the horizon for the rescue ship. Maybe I can try to carve some reindeer out of those coconuts while I wait.

And there's another thing...Christmas cards. I'm not sure why, but I tend to think the whole idea is dumb and pointless at best, particularly the ones where people just sign their names. And if people scrawl a bit of news, or God forbid, send a newsletter with photographs of the happy clan, I more often than not feel overcome with an urge to stick something sharp into my eye. Maybe it's because I know a lot of people, many of whom I know fine well to be experiencing some...rich complexities of life. But none of that is conveyed in the card. It's all shiny happy Pottery Barn shit.

Please. If you love me, send me a note sometime when you have a minute to write something real, and tell me about your life, not just your big new promotion, your holiday to Cuba, your child's trophy in some obscure martial art.

Actually, I had a big fight with E. the other day about Christmas cards. I got back from Florida to find a card from a friend I shall call "Smug Polly". I went to university with Smug Polly, and we were on extremely friendly terms for a few years. We then had a spectacular falling out over something really dumb, and didn't renew our acquaintence until she was pregnant with her first child. At that stage, E. and I weren't yet trying, and I was more than a little curious about the whole pregnancy/birth/parenting thing.

Smug Polly, in addition to be very smug, falls firmly into the Uber-Fertile category. So there was lots of allusions to the fact that it had been incredibly easy for her to get knocked up, and she hoped it would be the same for me. Then, as time wore on, and it wasn't happening, she joined the Just Relax Brigade. We'd go for a walk in the park with her adorable, delectable toddler, and she would lecture me on the need to chill out and stop being so "goal oriented".

Unsurprisingly, I once again stopped hanging out with Smug Polly shortly thereafter.

But guess what Smug P's news was on the Christmas card? No, really, you'll never ever guess in a million...oh, right, another baby on the way. Smuggity smug.

I threw the card away. E. fished it out of the bin and lectured me on "not being very nice". You know, I love him more than life itself, but sometimes I want to give E. a nice sharp slap upside the head.

However, several days later, buoyed by the good news post-HSG, I was overcome by yuletides gay. I figured I may as well e-mail Smug Polly to say congrats and all that. Peace on earth, good will to fertiles. How quickly I regretted that move, since her reply went something along the lines of "see, there is nothing irreversibly wrong with you. It's all your head, so just relax, and by the way, you are so lucky not to have any kids, because you can go on vacation whenever you like."

WHY do people not appreciate how inappropriate that kind of comment is? I hate to drag out the overused cancer analogy again, but would you really say to someone undergoing chemotherapy that they just need to chill out, and by the way, isn't it neat how they get to wear all those fun wigs? No. I think not.

Now, maybe I shall distract myself by trying to make a sand sculpture snowman.

no si thgil der nehw retne ton oD- yaR-X

I had my HSG yesterday.

I took the small valium tablet in the taxi on the way to the hospital yesterday, surreptiously rootling it out of the envelope my mother had given me, dry-swallowing it while the driver wasn't looking. I wasn't quite sure when to take the tablet but the whole taxi thing was stressing me out almost as badly as the thought of the procedure. So I figured better sooner than later. I HATE taxis with a fiery loathing. I sit in the back, watching the fare tick tick tick, palms sweating, agonising over the extortionate amount of money. To go so little a distance! I could tell you long tales of the lengths I usually go to avoid taxis, but we're here to talk about the HSG, so I won't.

Nor was I quite sure how the valium would make me feel. I knew it wasn't a very strong dose, but I haven't taken anything stronger than an Advil in over 15 years. Plus, as I have already explained hospitals can sometimes be a little surreal for me at the best of times.

I got there, found the X-Ray department, filled in a form, took out a second mortgage on my house to pay for the test, and sat down to wait. Whereupon I began to feel slightly odd. In particular, I found myself staring at all the signs around me, trying to work out what the words said, if read backwards.

As in, "rehpargoidar eht rof tiaw esaelp"- "Please wait for the radiographer" . Or "tnangerp eb thgim uoy kniht uoy fi wonk su tel ot erus eb- seidaL"- "Ladies- be sure to let us know if you think you might be pregnant".

Once I started, I could not stop. So I figured the valium must be working.

I also discovered that one of the nice things about paying for treatment at a private hospital is that in addition to the nasty paper gown tying up the back, they also give you a big fluffy warm white robe to cover your pantless dignity while you wait. And a wee locker for all your gubbins, seeing how you are about to be flat on your back with a tube up the cooter, and will hardly be in a position to mind your handbag.

Excellent. Deep breathing. Letters backward. The doctor will be with you soon. Noos. Noos. Noos.

Once I got into the X-Ray room, there were a few quick questions- had I ever been pregnant? No. Was there a chance I could be pregnant now? No. Had I ever had a test like this before? On. Sorry? On. I mean, no. No.

OK then, all aboard.

Now, I do so hate anybody clamping anything on my cervix, you know, generally, and this was no exception. But it didn't really hurt. It felt a bit...squiggy, I guess is how I would describe, though I very much doubt that is the technical term. When the dye went in, there was a brief sharp period-like ache but that was it. No BURNING, SEARING pain a la Soper *. Thank you, baby Jesus.

[*Read comments section on the last post for this soothing, uplifting description of what may be experienced in some cases.]

The test itself took all of five minutes. I know, because I heard the doctor tell the nurse afterwards, and I lay there for a moment calculating how many £££ per minute. Gah. A lotta lot .

And now the good news- I have a uterus! And fallopian tubes! Right where they should be! The tubes are clear, and all looks normal uterine-wise. I looked over at the X-Ray monitor as I was cinching myself back into a more dignified sitting up position, and there it was- my little dye filled uterus, all as normal as can be. Cute, I thought, looking more closely at the screen while the nurse went to get me a sanitary pad. It's quite cute. Empty, but cute. Etuc.

Now all we can do is confer with Dr Ticktock when we have our appointment next week. Somehow I doubt "cute" is an adjective he will be using, but I don't really care as long as he concurs that all is normal.

And then...? We'll see.

Lagjetted

I was hoping to have a chance this weekend to ruminate over, then write about, certain aspects of my trip to the familial home in Florida. But it looks like it may take me a little longer than I had thought to regain equilibrium here.

Traveling between time zones and countries is always a little disorienting, but this time seems particularly bad. Apparently, according to E., I sat straight up in bed in the middle of the night and shouted, "Where am I?"

My body clock is clearly confused. I never master the whole sleep-on-the-plane during night flight- then stay- awake-until bedtime when back in UK, thus reducing awkward jet lag. This trip was no different. Instead, I watched all the movies and read my book under the dim shine of the cabin light before arriving, exhausted, in London where I promptly fell asleep on one of the few reclining chairs in the airport. I then had a further nap when I got back to the flat in the Other City. This screwed things up completely when it came time for "normal bed time".

Then there is the obvious, um, difference in the weather. Florida last week? Sunny, warm, glorious, relaxed. Scotland this week? Cold, dark, wet, gloomy. I am having my usual crisis of wondering why it is I live here. E. keeps reminding me that visiting is not the same living there. An obvious fact, to be sure, but one which is easily overlooked in the pangs of regret that tend to accompany the return to life in Scotland.

Lastly, I have been trying to lavish lots of love and attention on my much neglected E.. But it's somewhat hard to be at my affectionate and perky best when my eyes feel like burnt holes in the landscape of my head, reeling from cultural whiplash, and contemplating certain grim realities. Namely, returning to work tomorrow morning. Oh, and let us not forget my HSG tomorrow afternoon. The joys, the joys.

E. can't come with me to the appointment, so I must now figure out how to make my way by public transport or taxi to the hospital, and then depending on his timetable and whether he can collect me afterwards, how to get home again. Also when to take my valium tablet, bearing in mind I may also have negotiate complicated paying of the bill before procedure. All of this is preoccupying me somewhat, whereas in an interesting role reversal, E. is more focused on things like when we are going to set up the Christmas tree and start writing our seasonal greeting cards.

Is it any wonder I am tetchy, bristling like a fretful porpentine.

Home sweet Barn

At last, I am home, after another marathon 22 hour journey. Home, home, home.

There's lots of catching up to do, as well as unpacking all the bounteous goodies, and reacquainting myself with that cute boy E.. I think he was beginning to wonder if I was going to return, as my e-mails became more sporadic, running along the lines of "Sorry, gotta dash, off to the mall." "Sorry, must dash, off to the movies & dinner". "Sorry, have to dash, there is sunshine here, something I will not be likely to see again for another six months. Must go soak up rays."

He clearly requires soothing and affection. I'll try to work on that, in between falling into bed to sleep for at least 16 hours.

And then, at last, normal blogging service shall be resumed.

Life's a beach

I am still in Florida. There is a very nice beach here. Yesterday I decided it might cheer me up to go sit there, catch some rays, and watch the surf come in, go out, come in, ad infinitum,in a soothing kind of way.

It was only after I had unravelled beach chair from handy carrier bag type thing, completed Ph.D in beach chair assembly, planted self securely in a good spot (quite near the lifeguard station but not too close to large flock of marauding seagulls), shook sand out of shoes, lathered self with lotion, put on hat, had drink of water and handful of trail mix, unearthed sunglasses from bottom of beach bag, together with New Yorker magazine and other reading material, and adjusted skimpy boy-surf shorts which had begun to ride up in unseemly fashion and indeed cut into self, that I realised...the enormity of my error.

Because the beach was suddenly full of children. Specifically, small chubby toddlers wearing funny bathing suits and floppy hats, swaybacked and fat tummied, clutching pails and buckets in eager little fists. Headed right in my direction.

Maddeningly, one small munchkin plopped himself a hand's breadth away from my perch, and began building the Great Wall of China in the sand, humming some little tune over and over under his sweet baby breath.

The surf came in. The surf went out. The world continued to spin on its axis. And there was a well of tears behind my sunglasses.

Finally, small munchkin's mother appeared from somewhere, whistling for him and calling his name over and over in a high-pitched squeal, like he was a purebred puppy. Honestly, I don't mean to judge other people's parenting skills, but is it reallly necessary to summon your offspring in that manner? Here boy, fetch. Good doggie.

I think for the rest of the visit, I will stick with sitting on the end of my dad's dock, watching the mullet jump. This is also quite soothing. Who needs all that sand anyway.

Shudder

As always, I am touched by the kindness of so many of you, women who appreciate that a garden variety, bog-standard cycle with no particular prospects for success can nonetheless deliver a pretty potent kick in the teeth. I think there are a couple of reasons I felt it quite acutely this time, but that will have to wait until I have some time to blog at will and at length.

In the meantime, can I share something else that is distressing me? Not in the grand scheme of things, exactly, but it has given me pause on more than one occasion on this trip. I'm talking about Coach.

Have they have LOST their collective minds? Whither the classy little leather bucket bag? Wherefore the once proud sleek streamlined duffle?

I mean, really. The new designs make me *shudder*- as if my granny, once immaculately decked out in Chanel, had started parading around in a Juicy velour top with acid washed micro mini. If I wanted something made out of a quilted material, lined with fur in an ocelot pattern, then frankly, I would have just gone elsewhere. I know you can still get the good stuff, but it was far from in evidence on my recent retail tour of duty.

I despair. Is nothing sacred anymore?

In which it turns out I am disappointed after all

So. As anticipated, I am definitely Not Pregnant. Un-pregnant. Pregnancy-free. Without child. Knocked down, as opposed to knocked up.

Sorry, Mom, no need to rush down to Walgreens or wherever for an HPT. I know you had a 15% off coupon and were all psyched up to use it on some peesticks for me.

Sorry, E. I wish we knew what the problem was here. You told me tonight that you phoned the clinic, and they won't give the SA results until we speak to our RE at our next appointment. We'll have a lot to chat about, won't we, since that HSG will be going ahead after all. Guess I better not go too hog wild with the credit card since I'll now need to come up with the cash to pay for that appointment.

It's funny how the disappointment finds you, even when you thought it wouldn't. Even when you knew what was coming, and had braced yourself for another let down. Even when you told yourself all those fantasies of buying baby clothes (the exchange rate! so good! worth it to shop now!) were foolhardy in the extreme.

Even when you thought you had outrun it, gone into hiding. Gone on holiday.

Basement stealth post

As I have explained, I have a new laptop, and therefore some control over the posting situation, especially in terms of not accidentally leaving telltale traces back to my blog URL. This does not however assist with the lack of privacy or need to account for one's activity at all times. Our visits tend to be spent superglued into each other's company, extracting every bit of familial goodness out of the event.

However, I have managed to set up camp in a corner of the basement where I can steal away for short intervals. So the blogging method for the next week or so is going to be a little different- bite sized chunks o'Mare, with less content but more frequency. That's the theory, anyway.

For today's segment, can I join the rest of the internet in wishing the lovely Julie a hearty congrats on the birth of wee Bat. I sincerely hope all goes well there.

Also, I discovered today that my mother and I do not share similar attitudes to HPTs. I casually mentioned to her as we cleared up the dinner dishes that I would know in the next day or two if I am pregnant. Whereupon she practically frothed at the mouth, demanding that I pee on something THIS INSTANT.

I didn't actually bring any peesticks with me, since I am pretty sure I am not pregnant, but she was undeterred. So we may be making a run to the drugstore tomorrow- I may not be about the instant gratification in terms of knowing the result. But we are dealing with my mother here. And who am I to deprive her of a vicarious thrill. Or you know, not, when it comes up negative.