I am, what, about 10 days post-ovulation. My boobs are sore, and I am sitting here with cramps. I REALLY wish that this wouldn’t happen if I’m not pregnant. It annoys me, vastly. Because even though I know chances of conception are, well, slim, there is still a part of me that is hopeful every time I have two rocks sticking out of the front of my chest. And that’s the part that gets disappointed.
I’m developing a theory, that perhaps, on these months where the second part of the cycle sees me wince every time I take off my bra, that perhaps conception is occurring. It’s not every month, for sure. I wonder if the poor little bugger is dividing away, looking for a nice place to bed down, and then doesn’t quite manage it. I don’t know if that even makes sense, physiologically, but it’s a theory, I suppose.
Perhaps himself should equip his sperm with drills so that the poor embryo has a fighting chance? Or even No More N*ils?
I had a friend over for lunch the other week. She’s pregnant, I know she is. My infertile pregnancy radar was blaring away so loudly I’m surprised she couldn’t hear it. I tried to enquire, nicely, stopping short of “Damnit woman, is that a food baby or a real one?” but she wasn’t playing. So in my perhaps twisted way, I decided to tell her that I was worried we couldn’t have a baby, and the fact that that is really hard for us to handle. Just to make her feel slightly more awkward. Perhaps not the best idea I’ve ever had, but I was having an “I’m feeling bitter and infertile” day. We all know those.
She hasn’t contacted me since. I wonder why.
In the slightly brighter end of the spectrum, I got accepted for a degree course I’d applied for, and really wanted to get onto. So in October, I will officially be a student again… 6 years after I last was.