BFN

I appear not to be pregnant. I have never seen a whiter window on a peestick, in fact.

Primary emotion? Relief.

Secondary emotion? Vaguely peeved, really.

Tertiary emotion? A little wistful. But only a little. I simply couldn’t cope with (what would be my 5th) pregnancy currently.

The child I already have, thank you, God is once again refusing his nosebag, losing weight – and does not appear to be refluxing on this occasion. He has another ugly-looking tongue ulcer. The GP is mystified, and would have referred him to the paediatrician – were we not already seeing him mid-November. I suppose Harry may – just about, if he paces himself – not die of starvation before then. In the meantime, he is on vivid orange (and quite astonishingly tangy) multi-vitamins (Phhhlewwhh! Spit!) and mouth-numbing spray (clamps his lips tightly shut on sight of bottle) to tide him over.

So, that’ll be a fun conversation tomorrow morning. Annnnnnd then the Piddle are coming again in the afternoon, so I need to go and make cakes. And I should really go and talk to the Hubby as well, seeing as we had unpleasant words at lunchtime, but I shall probably end up being too cross to effectively communicate, and he most likely won’t listen anyway. I also need to clean the downstairs toilet, and evict the tarantula (eeek!) in the corner. I also need to vacuum the living room carpet so visiting babies can pee on it again in comfort, without being put off by the crumbs. And I should also clean the kitchen floor, as every time Harry drops to his knees, he acts as a small yet effective broom among the filth. And clean the kitchen surfaces, so visiting mothers can eat cake without worrying about food poisoning.

And… and… and… I’m just so tiredBleat bleat bleat. Harry is hungry and miserable and keeps yelling in the night for boob and cuddles. And I’m worrying myself silly about his weight (Shrinking. Below 9th centile again.) and his height (*Tiny. Like, below-the-2nd-centile tiny.) and his walking (comically slow to improve) and his propensity to wallop himself (*by falling over every 5 minutes, hard) and… and… and…

I didn’t realise the worry would be such a full-time thing, you know?

And before I know it he’ll be keeping me awake at nights worrying that he’s upturned his car into a ditch, or that he’s blind drunk on cider (just like his father, Godammit) and passed out in some club somewhere. Or that he has, God bless him, got a girl up the gumtree.

It’s dawning on me that the tight knot in the stomach never really goes away.

Huh. Who knew?

* Your grammar is doubtless rather more polished than mine, so please do remind me how on earth to capitalise and punctuate mid-sentence parentheses. I use them far too much, and treat them differently every bloody time. Both habits must be deeply annoying.

PS. Sorry, Katie, I was not seeing Hamlet. Tickets Cannot Be Had without sleeping overnight in the queue at the box office. Although, the way our nights have been going lately, I might have a better night there than here. You’d think I’d have bumped into old David around town by now, but no!

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7 Responses

  1. Can you make me cake too???

  2. Oh, boo. I think you should hang around outside the theatre and stalk him, really.

  3. Oh dear. Make cake while the sun shines I say.

    The worry, yes, I too worry about the worry. Also the grammar, but more so the worry.

  4. Oh dear.

    May I offer you a small consolation prize?

    http://missionimpossibleinfertile.wordpress.com/2008/10/14/aww-and-possibly-shucks/
    much love,

    J

  5. Oh, infantile weight loss….I hate assvice, especially such pedestrian assvice as this, but: might he be teething? Mine always manages to drop at least half a pound when sprouting new fangies. It drives me to crazed extremes like slipping malt powder into his bottles to encourage him to eat. Perhaps the sight of the cakes will perk him up.

    (I cast no aspersions on your midsentence parenthetical punctuation; even when it’s not strictly by the book [and my book is a different one from yours, degenerate colonial that I am], it’s perfect in effect.)

  6. Oh I’m sorry. What a muddle of emotion. And no, I don’t think the worry ever goes away. They don’t tell you that when the baby is born, do they? I sort of suspected but I had NO IDEA.

  7. someone’s got to be at the 9th percentile… teething?
    sorry about the BFN – happy, though, about your cake [can you see where my priorities are?]
    Rita

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