The plunge happened. Two days ago. One day early actually (this concerns me slightly). Today’s temp confirmed that it wasn’t just a fluke. After some nice triphasal patterning, (and continued heavy-feeling, sore breasts) I have to admit I was surprised. I guess we didn’t make the winning goal in this game.
I’ll be honest: It hit me harder than I expected. Being stuck in a bedroom with my daughter, both of us exhausted but awake, not willing to get up for over two hours, didn’t help. Neither did getting something in the mail, something I hoped to use to tell Mi.Vida the good news (if there were any good news to share), didn’t help either.
But there were no tears, just some pricklies behind my eyes. And now I’m just waiting for the final blow so I can get on with it and start again.
Thank goodness for another chance, right?
I’m actually spending these days stressing on the timing of these next two cycles because if I ovulate early for either of them, we’ll miss our chance in July, as I’ll be away with some girl friends for four days–right at the worst time. So I just want to ovulate on day 13 for the next to cycles. I’m really focusing on having all the chances I can.
Counting out like that, realizing how little time there is left before we start getting into
the “later than we would have like” territory, thinking about possible losses and set backs and how far apart my children will likely be, I get panicky. I get scared. Really scared.
But then I remind myself that it will be okay. Ultimately, even if NOTHING goes according to plan, it will be okay.
I mean, my sister and I have seven years between us and our lives turned out alright. I can do this, whatever “this” ends up being. I have to.
So with a somewhat heavy heart and some definite melancholy I go into this long weekend. I also go in with a case of Diet Coke, two six packs of beer and some out-of-town friends. Needless to say I will be taking advantage of not being pregnant. Frequent and whole-hearted advantage.
And frankly, having friends here with two perfectly spaced (three years apart) kids does more to humble me than inspire jealousy. Having two kids looks like some hard fucking work. Neither gets a moment of alone time all day. It is a good reminder of what we’re working towards, that it’s not all unicorn farts and fairy queefs. Not at all.
I mean, I know that, but a tangible reminder never hurts.
Oh, and after some drama on my other site I put up a post about what I learned. It was definitely an eye opening experience.