Saturday, October 8, 2005

"How's the baby thing going?"

If I was as good at comebacks as I am at getting pregnant, I'd be the Donald Trump of the comeback world. I'd be savvy. Smooth. Cool, calm, collected. Unphazable (I made that word up. I'm a Trump. I can do what I like). Unlike George "that's what I shoulda said!" Costanza.

Our next door neighbours moved out this week. They'll be sorely missed. They and their two young boys have been the quietest, most respectful people you could hope to live next to. Hell, even their dog barks quietly (no kidding). Last week, knowing their settlement date was drawing to a close, I stopped for a rare chat with Stu as he busied himself with moving things out.

"How's all the baby stuff going?", he asked innocently, pointing to my belly. Wow, what an opener! No "How's this weather", "Are you well", "Did you catch last night's ep of The Alice" (er... and the answer to THAT one would be an emphatic "NOOOOOO! Don't even make me think about the show la la la, I can't hear you I can't hear you, bad show, bad show"). I just started replying politely, going into a fair bit of detail for the increasingly wide-eyed nice man. Well, he asked! I should have thought of a socially acceptable reply that enabled me to get out of divulging anything at all. Something to respectfully and firmly crush him and all others like him who have the balls to come right out and ask so boldly. But I didn't. Why? Because I didn't want to see him crushed, is why.

Why is it that I can be unoffended by my neighbour, whom I barely speak to or see, asking me such personal and forthright questions, and yet I don't let others close to me off the hook when they say misplaced things that are purely meant to comfort?

But I digress. Big-time.

I wanted to explain just how great the baby "thing" is going. I'm all smiles at the moment, I don't know what's wrong with me. What's this, I keep asking myself. Then I realise it's my cheek muscles flexing into a grin. Oh! Nice, different, 's unewesual.

I bought the VIP membership on Fertility Friend yesterday, thanks to my good buddies over at the fertility charting forum I frequent. I am a new girl! I'm pissing on sticks (ovulation predictor ones) like they're going out of fashion - oh, holy shit, I hope they don't ever go out of fashion... imagine it. I'm surrounded by my temperature chart, cover lines, cervical mucus, the works. By purchasing this membership, somehow my ovulation date changed from Saturday last to "possibly" today. Hmmmmm. I've heard of stress, illness, miscarriage, etc., affecting ovulation. But never money.

What a difference a Visa makes.

Ok, I was gonna leave it there but in all fairness to my Friend, Mr, I have to explain to all you non-charting bods out there. There are several charting "methods" by which the computerised software plots your course through your daily basal body temp readings. I was using the basic kind of "fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants" cutting edge one, not really founded much in facts and proven method, but more the trailblazing type method. I changed it to the more sedate, tried and true method. And when I did, my coverline (the magical red line that indicates the point at which you've ovulated that all good charting obsessors aspire to during the first half of their cycle each month) disappeared. I was so relieved! It's made the mystery of my Himalayan-horizon of a chart look far more understandable. I thought my progesterone had dropped off the face of the earth, shamed and offended into obscurity by the fact that I dissed its effectiveness when I was taking the IVF clinic-prescribed progesterone support for the last couple of cycles.

But no! Methinks the progesterone lives! All hail my progesterone!


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