More Tea, Vicar?

I’m a bit sheepish about this, as I have to explain to you that my endocrine system is sadly deluded again, because my body obviously thinks, erroneously, that ovulation has occurred. Daft cow. Optimistic, yes, but not clever.

I suppose she’s trying her best: so I had better give her credit for the small amount of EWCM produced. And on Wednesday I had palpitations so thumpy I was thankful that the Piddle were visiting, as I reasoned that if my heart decided to give up completely and I passed dramatically away, which felt likely, at least Harry wouldn’t have the opportunity to gleefully maul my corpse about and gouge my eyes out. It’s his precious new trick, bless him.

Without the miracle of modern peesticks, I might perhaps have been suckered into said body’s heartfelt protestations of ovulation. However, courtesy of the cheap end of the internet, I recently purchased a job-lot of tests and have been dutifully peeing in the Bertolli Pasta Sauce mug that I have recently placed in the bathroom for this very purpose. This was a deliberate choice of urine receptacle: I dislike the mug intensely, but am too frugal to throw away a perfectly sound item. I had pushed it to the back of the cupboard, but Hubby, knowing my feelings concerning it, would generally pick it out deliberately to annoy me and re-insert it into circulation. I suspect that its tea-containing days are now officially over. Anyhoo, I have been peeing in my tea cup and dipping the infertile’s biscotti: ovulation sticks.

We have a whole bag of nice camera lenses, but not one that will focus down close enough to show you just how laughably faint the LH lines have been all this week. They were discernable to the naked eye – just – up until Thursday night, when the stick turned lily-white. The mucus has stopped. The palpitations – always my favourite symptom -have stopped. My body, in fact, is patently relaxing in the warm glow of a job well done. Sigh.

I had best go and be productive: John is about to disappear (as he does every Saturday) for several hours to play hockey; we have four friends coming to dinner, and Harry is a fretful tired little man, who has been subdued by his MMR jab all week. We have an expanding measles outbreak here in Warwickshire, a fact which I took care to relay to the two mothers I know who have refused to get their 3 year olds MMRd because of, you know, the risk. 

Ahh, yes! That’d be the risk that never was, then, ladies. If Harry catches even the mildest possible dose of measles – and I was seriously ill with it as a child – before his immunity kicks in from one of these unvaccinated toddler children of irresponsible mothers, I shall be applying cow shit to doorsteps in liberal quantities.

My laptop is under attack from questing little fingers that want to help Mummy type.


Good bye!

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