Another month is drawing to a close. I’ve been patting myself on the back lately; having successfully transformed myself into a dutiful hausfrau (cooking! all the time! cleaning! and ironing too!), I can now sew another badge on to the girl scout sash of life.
As for me, I am still here. *waves* I have my happy thoughts of moving back home, and as the winter draws to a close, I am optimistically looking forward to sunnier days. We’re trying to conceive still, as you know, and although the last cycle was a bust (apparently miscarriages eff you UP, normality-wise), this cycle is looking good. My fingers are crossed, as are my toes. And all of the silverware. Come on, baby! I’m trying my darndest to relax in this cycle. I’m trying not to interpret every twinge, or lack thereof:
“Ooh! I’m nauseous! I must be pregnant!”
“Oh, I’m not nauseous anymore, I’m definitely not pregnant. I’m never going to have children.”
*glares at pregnant lady walking past*
I’m still charting my basal body temperatures. I’ve found it ever so helpful in helping me to understand my body – and for the Type A personality in me, I found it gives me a sense of control over something that really, I have no control over. That’s one of the hardest parts of TTC-ing, I find. I’ve never smoked/done drugs, I don’t drink coffee or alcohol or tea. I’ve even cut back on chocolate because it contains caffeine and because it maybe just might influence the miscarriage rate. I walk 4 km a day to and from work. I’ve read over thirty books on pregnancy, women’s health, and fertility in the last three months. I recycle, eat only organic food, pray for less fortunate people than myself, and yet, every cycle I have only a 25% of getting pregnant. And that’s HARD. I got straight A’s from elementary through university. I graduated with personal recommendations from the dean and a volunteering resumé that would make the late Mother Theresa applaud. And I can’t MAKE myself be pregnant.
It’s just so frustrating not to be able to study my way/practice my way/network my way into being a mother. I wish there was an equation for that kind of happiness. A “do this + this + this = a healthy, full-term pregnancy and a healthy baby” sort of deal that I could prepare for, that I could work towards. I’ve studied, and studied, and studied. I KNOW THIS STUFF. Conception is a MIRACLE. A g-darned miracle, and it blows me away how easy it is for others to have “mistakes.”
I would love to have a mistake.
Until then, I am still charting, with a zealous passion that shocks even myself. Every high temperature is scrutinized, compared, judged to its neighbors on my chart. 36.6 C? Eh, it’s okay. 36.8 – yes, good job! You win! Each temperature is like a grade on a term paper – the higher the temperature, the happier I am. As if I can control them. As if beating myself over a lower temperature is productive. I know I should stand back, breathe, try to see the forest from the trees…and then I see my pregnant neighbor, or see the ultrasound of someone else’s baby that would have been due when mine was, and I’m scribbling furiously, taking notes, and studying for an exam that I will never be asked to write, preparing for a project that will be never be due. Because it’s not up to me.
It’s not up to me.
