Caged Rat

I have no news for you, internet.  At a mere 8dpo it is a little premature to be placing my faith in anything except blind hope.


Apart from a worrisome two hours last night when the Wrong Uterus kicked off – and I will spare you the paroxysms of panic that sent me into – the Correct Uterus has been gently cramping away in Nicely Implanting Fashion. I was confidently expecting a little darkening of peesticks this morning, especially after one of my legendary Tesco-own-brand tests trumped the cheapy 10mIU barely-there-at-all-lines yesterday, and produced (after a couple of hours) a very clearly visible line. Those Tesco tests are da shit, people, really they are.

Which makes it harder to ignore the fact that, this morning, they are blanker than Les Dawson’s chequebook. Pristine, unbesmirched white. Every camera we own has a flat battery, but you can nevertheless trust my judgement: I have an eye like a particularly discerning pigeon when it comes to spotting the merest suggestion of shading. If there was any: I would see it.  

I have savoured many different flavours of failure at this baby-producing game, but it’s never just not worked before. It’s never cost this much before. I don’t know whether to be shocked or indignant, so I’ve settled on both. And yesyesyes, I know Turbo could theoretically have only just locked tractor beams with my endometrium, eight dpo, I know, but the first person to blow cheery smoke up my bum gets lamped with a housebrick, coz I’m just not in the mood to be placated about a hCG of (what is definitely) less than 5 at this point; I am in the mood for thumping things.

Harry’s mainstream nursery told me when I dropped him off earlier that they have ‘taken a decision’ regarding the fact that Harry will be the only child in his peer group – ie, the older children that start school this Autumn – that will not be going on the school trip to the wildlife park, and will not be part of the class dance round the Maypole. Unusually, our village has a tall, permanent Maypole, and I could post several faded 1970s photos of a small, shorts-wearing, Morris-dancing-outfitted, and quite nomnomable small boy called John performing a series of increasingly unenthusiastic ribbon dances around said pole, but my current desire to pick fights does not extend quite that far.

Harry will be in a different village school next year, so this would have been his mother’s only chance to take photos his only chance to perform. Attributing his exclusion to his 3-half-days-a-week (as opposed to everyone else’s 5), and blaming Exhausting Daily Practise Schedules, they are evidently concerned that my blundering 3 yr old might fuck up the exceedingly-complicated ribbon pattern that his peers will achieve. He probably would, yes; it’s not the sort of thing that quite plays to what might be called his 3 yr old strengths. There are biggish crowds in attendance on the evening in question, you understand, so I can completely see that a badly-performing 3 yr old boy might make the school blush for its ribbon-dance reputation.

Fuck Beltane, and the horse it rode in on.

The school trip was thumbs-downed for him because it’s a ‘long day’ and the younger children become ‘very tired’. He is pretty much the oldest child in the class (ETA: John has subsequently gently pointed out to me that I am, in fact, Dead Wrong about this; there are children nearly a year older than Harry. Older, shmoulder.) and I suspect he has exactly as much staying power for this sort of thing as the very next 3 yr old, and I can spot specious when I see it, thanks. Just call him the accident-prone, inattentive handful that he is, and admit you’d need to fund an extra member of staff to cope. Ask me if I’d like to come along to keep an eye on him. Admit that you’d have an easier, less-stressful trip without him. Admit that you’ve cottoned-on to the fact that he’s not attending your school anymore come September.

My thoughts are skittering about like a caged rat in rising water.

My uterus continues to cramp, hopefully.

Fuck hope. Fuck everything.


Updated to add:
WTF, peesticks?

Updated some more to add:

I wish I hadn’t remembered that hCG metabolises into the blood rather sooner than the urine. Pass the salad spinner!

You will pleased to hear that I am planning an early night shortly, along with my new copy of Stop Fucking Panicking And Get Some Sleep magazine.


2 Responses

  1. I’ve closed comments. If I’m permitting myself to whine this savagely, then the least I can do is save you the necessity of feeling obliged to pat my shoulder.

    Plus, you’d all tell me off for being pessimistic on the 3rd-day-past-5-day-blastocyst-transfer. And I was nearly serious about the housebrick.

  2. […] lines after 12 hours) to ridiculously faint smudge after a mere 30 minutes (I knew my uterus couldn’t be wrong!) telling me a story of a very biochemical indeed pregnancy; however, my uterus is now quiet as […]

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