We’re STILL majoring in Pessimism, mkay?

Everything I peed on this morning refused to tell me I wasn’t slightly more pregnant than yesterday, which took me aback.

The Boots Early Result one gave a wishy-washy line in the stated 2 minutes – but indubitably, a line. CheapieCheapieNiceNice decided to work properly, and, again, judiciously marked me at a little darker than yesterday within the time limit. Even the Tesco Triumphants turned up something shadowy in the stated 3 minutes before developing into a stronger-than-yesterday line a little later on. 

I know I can trust you not to fart rainbows of sparkly baby dust at me. I realise it’s hard; I have been desperate to fart glorious rainbows at Geohde for days&days&days, but sometimes people – especially people who are expecting it to go horribly, bloodily Pete Tong any moment – are happiest thinking about the situation as something that can’t last. Especially when, four times out of my (now) six, things have indeed Gone Tits Up for us.

(You are, btw, the Very Nicest Internets that ever there was. I know you have rainbows up your beautiful fundaments for me. Just… hold ’em in for a bit, please. Even if you’re touching cloth. About another 34 weeks should do it. Kthx.)

What happens now is:

I pee on even more sticks between now and Monday afternoon, because, duuhhhhh.

I go back to my clinic on Monday afternoon  – 14dpo – for An Official Peesticking. Which, in my head, looks a little like this:

Providing nothing catastrophic in the hCG or menstruation department has occured in the interim, the Schrödingery business of repeat quantitative betas commences, I expect.

And I try like hell not to think of a single thing beyond Tomorrow.

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