Uneasy Lies The Head

I was also thinking about calling this one ‘Mucus: Wherefore Art Thou?’ Or ‘I can has frequent blog posting prize?!’

I have the twinging pain. In the lazy ovary, too. The one attached to the good* uterus!

I have the LH surge**:


I have the spots:

(Photo taken but too featuring far too many un-plucked, un-waxed and un-bleached hairs to publish)

But I do not have the mucus. At least, I have none of the right type of mucus.

And this month, I was half-considering having a proper go at things. At 15 stone, (that’s right! a whole stone heavier than the previous ‘I am too fat to get pregnant post!’ AND I went to the gym 3 times last week and 3 times this week ALREADY and it’s only Thursday! AND I sweated properly! AND I have put on another pound! GAH!) this is not a particularly clever move. I have no better reasons to field than A) I lose the best part of a stone in the 1st trimester coz I can’t actually eat, and B) I am surrounded with legions of pregnant women. Simply can’t move for the buggers. Announcements have been coming at me from all sides, which I suppose is inevitable when a high proportion of your girly chums have 18-month old kids.

I don’t dissolve into a sad little puddle of hate the way I used to when ‘the news’ is given. I can produce a smile without having to ratchet it there forcibly from an achingly sore combination of personal obligation, social conscience and pride. I don’t inwardly convulse with a toxic mixture of jealousy, naked distress, and panic. But the memories of when I did are etched so deep that I still get a stab of something unpleasant. My baby isn’t a baby anymore – and fuck knows how and when that happened – and all these other women are leaving me behind with their relentless output; their production line of infants. Again.

My pregnancy seems like a distant dream. Not even the fact that I can still – still! – produce milk convinces me that I’m in the club now. I tell myself that I am, happily, no longer one of the distraught dispossessed. I have the baby magazines, the stairgates, the cute little clothes, the lego, the carseat and everything. Whilst Harry lives, I can never be desolate again. And I still can’t accept the new normal, or take any of it for granted. 

Even if we have another child… after so spending so long in such deep distress and mourning for my failure to conceive, followed by losing my babies, I’m sure I will spend my remaining life stood on the outside of motherhood, looking in. Harry – despite being the light of my existence, without whom I would curl up and try to die – can never return me to the person I was in 2003.

On a visceral level I am truly maimed by his long-delayed arrival and premature birth, but I consciously try to view the traumas of infertility and miscarriage as a catalyst for some seriously stern character development. With varying degrees of success.

** When I requested John to take this shot with his super-duper new close-up lens, he squinted suspiciously at the peestick, went to pick it up, had second thoughts, and withdrew his hand. He then enquired in repulsed tones ‘Which end have you peed on?’

Hairy hubby is such a girl.

8 Responses

  1. I recognize that uneasiness, but if you don’t take chances, you never get to win…

  2. The best of the proverbial. Understand the left behind feelings. Heck, there’s a bunch of fellow ali types who’ve left me in their dust. Lapped!


  3. It’s crap the way the universe is capable of adding insult to injury. And I am currently inadequate to the point of stupidity in being able to proffer any advice that would make sense…might be jetlag…more likely frustration that some things just get harder over time rather than easier. *Big hugs*

  4. I’d comment something profound here, but I’m still picking up breakfast cereal.

  5. You have been such an inspiration to me! I enjoy reading your posts and look forward to hearing about your HFF life!

    I am a fellow didelphic and am encouraged by your strength. Keep your chin up. 🙂

    Check out my silly little work-in-progress blog if you have time…

  6. There’s never a perfect decision, is there. Stuff happens, we run to keep up. It’s a mistake to assume we get to make any decisions, really.

    I don’t know whether I’m saddened or pleased that you don’t feel part of the Mummy Groups. It’s sad the whole heart-breaking effort of getting pregnant, STAYING pregnant, and then having a premature baby scars and changes one so. But on the other hand every single group of ‘ha-ha my husband only has to look at me and I’m knocked up!’ mummies I have ever met have made me want to give each of their children three shots of espresso and a puppy. And then drink myself into a stupor. The SMUGNESS. The JUDGING. If I do ever get lucky, I shall be raising a wee hermit. Because, not joining. No how. Oh, wait, I’m judgemental NOW. Bother.

    And I shall be following developments with much interest and many many hugs and good wishes.

  7. I thought you must have been pg!!! Well that was a let down for me. 🙂


  8. Sorry I’m late, here, but despite lacking EWCM, you might yet move things along using “Pre-Seed,” one of the key components to which I ascribe Tinkerbell’s conception. Might not be easily available near you, but there’s always the internets.

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