Idiosyncracies

  • There have been NO MORE LIP-SPLITTING ACCIDENTS SINCE MONDAY.
  • That sound you hear? Me touching lots and lots and lots of wood. Do not giggle.
  • Yesterday, I saw my counsellor. We discussed Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry and the Very Bad and Worrisome whole Wanting To Hurt My Own Preshus Self thing. Felt, as always, calmed and soothed afterwards. I am going back a little sooner than usual to explore ways of mentally embarking upon a journey towards a second (actually fifth, but you get my drift) pregnancy that does not leave me feeling guilt-racked – before we’ve even got going – about sentencing a fetus to an worryingly indeterminate stay inside my now proven Not-Exactly-Grade-A uteri.
  • Ethics of deliberately creating a life when you know very well that your faulty internal housing might choke it half to death and expel it early. Like, umm, last time. Dodging of bullets, etc. Discuss!
  • It came as a slight shock when she began to talk about which obstetrician I might usefully be referred to this time around, and mentioned that the Professor of Obstetrics at my regional hospital is a Riskiest-of-High-Risk-Pregnancies specialist. I am so used to being the only specialist on my idiosyncratic anatomy that I tend to think that I’m on my own with it. Which in many ways, I am, but I can’t deny that the prospect of buttonholing an eminent chap (I’ve googled the shit out of him already) who might manage me a little more aggressively this time around was… pleasant. If there is a next time, of course.
  • In related news, my period started Tuesday, exactly 2 hours after I wasted a pregnancy stick. This did not surprise me; not only did I have an unco-operative internal pH thing going on during my LH surge, we also missed the boat on the whole introduce-sperm-to-egg process. On the crucial evening John visited the pub with a mate and although he returned, as ever, keen as mustard to perform, this did not actually prevent him from rapidly falling unconscious asleep without having given of his all, so to speak. Given that I am far too fat to be even half-way comfortably pregnant currently, this was not a disappointment to me, but Hubby seemed displeased about it. I am currently having crampybastardshittyfuckcramps; they are obviously fighting for money in there again.
  • Hubby had, incidentally, got tipsy at the pub with an-embarking-on-divorce-proceedings pal, who is now sporting a brand new pierced ear, his first tattoo and a chunky studded belt. He has also just bought a motorbike, and is stoicly propping up the local pub bars chatting up the beer flossies. Bless the man.
  • I went to bed earlyish last night, exhausted and with racking period pain. I woke up at 2am having bled all over the sheet. Nice.
  • Apropos of the too-fat-for-pregnancy thing, I got on the scales last night, got into bed and promptly burst into tears. I have lost exactly nothing after more than a month of conscientious 3-times-a-week gym attendance. I am, admittedly, aware that I have not been eating at all healthily – a long succession of cakes and sinfully buttery-creamy meals I have cooked for friends – and that my thrice-weekly torture has actually prevented me from gaining the stone+ that I thoroughly deserved to, but still… depressing. I am eating up assisting John with the the last of his birthday cake

cake

and then The Diet begins. I am only 4lbs off my heaviest-ever-including-pregnancy weight.  This is dreadful.

  • Harry’s Speech and Language Therapist came on Tuesday, had some useful suggestions for us, and seemed pleased that Harry has acquired – intermittently – a second word last week: ‘Out!’ He uses it to demand release from his highchair, although often also reverts simply to his generic ‘Iss! Dis!’ while struggling frantically with the straps. (We are still getting plenty of excited ‘Gis!’ despite the fact that they totally made him cry when they honked and ran at him this week.) She is chasing the Integrated Disability Service – that’s how it looks in my head, by the way – again to come and assess him. 
  • I have a boil-type thing in my ear, and it’s making my life miserable, particularly when I’m trying to sleep on it. I can’t see what’s happening – although feeling plenty – so I asked John to take a peer inside, with a view to lancing anything that presented itself. He recoiled backwards, emitting loud ‘urrgggghs!’ Useless.
  • I have still not bought John the whisky he requested as a birthday present, because I can’t be bothered to drive, park, visit the big off-licence, and pay for it with his money whilst toting a grabby-mine-giveitme-wantit toddler. Bad Wifey.
  • Harry has had a waily evening so far, which is a good indicator that he is going to go on to have a disturbed and screamy night. I’m guessing he’s under the weather, possibly with a gripy belly. I am upset by the fact that he is statistically likely to be experiencing pain, nightmares or is scared of something and cannot communicate these things to us at all. It hurts to know he has a comfort need I can’t fill properly.
  • Why, why are there no hexagonal/octagonal used summer houses on Ebay, within 30 miles of here, that no-one apart from me is interested in bidding on? I want one NOW. TODAY. Kthx.
  • The tortoise desperately needs cleaning out; the chicks are also getting off-puttingly smelly and need shifting into bigger quarters in the garage. These are tomorrow’s tasks. I will also have the insanely-heavy-periods-sufferer perk of putting Harry into the creche at the gym for an hour in the morning as usual – and sitting downstairs with coffee and a book.
  • Small Yay! for menorrhagia.
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