Barren Mare

Home Sweet Barn

At last, I am home, after another marathon 22 hour journey. Home, home, home.

There's lots of catching up to do, as well as unpacking all the bounteous goodies, and reacquainting myself with that cute boy E.. I think he was beginning to wonder if I was going to return, as my e-mails became more sporadic, running along the lines of "Sorry, gotta dash, off to the mall." "Sorry, must dash, off to the movies & dinner". "Sorry, have to dash, there is sunshine here, something I will not be likely to see again for another six months. Must go soak up rays."

He clearly requires soothing and affection. I'll try to work on that, in between falling into bed to sleep for at least 16 hours.

And then, at last, normal blogging service shall be resumed.

Life's a beach

I am still in Florida. There is a very nice beach here. Yesterday I decided it might cheer me up to go sit there, catch some rays, and watch the surf come in, go out, come in, ad infinitum,in a soothing kind of way.

It was only after I had unravelled beach chair from handy carrier bag type thing, completed Ph.D in beach chair assembly, planted self securely in a good spot (quite near the lifeguard station but not too close to large flock of marauding seagulls), shook sand out of shoes, lathered self with lotion, put on hat, had drink of water and handful of trail mix, unearthed sunglasses from bottom of beach bag, together with New Yorker magazine and other reading material, and adjusted skimpy boy-surf shorts which had begun to ride up in unseemly fashion and indeed cut into self, that I realised...the enormity of my error.

Because the beach was suddenly full of children. Specifically, small chubby toddlers wearing funny bathing suits and floppy hats, swaybacked and fat tummied, clutching pails and buckets in eager little fists. Headed right in my direction.

Maddeningly, one small munchkin plopped himself a hand's breadth away from my perch, and began building the Great Wall of China in the sand, humming some little tune over and over under his sweet baby breath.

The surf came in. The surf went out. The world continued to spin on its axis. And there was a well of tears behind my sunglasses.

Shudder

As always, I am touched by the kindness of so many of you, women who appreciate that a garden variety, bog-standard cycle with no particular prospects for success can nonetheless deliver a pretty potent kick in the teeth. I think there are a couple of reasons I felt it quite acutely this time, but that will have to wait until I have some time to blog at will and at length.

In the meantime, can I share something else that is distressing me? Not in the grand scheme of things, exactly, but it has given me pause on more than one occasion on this trip. I'm talking about Coach.

Have they have LOST their collective minds? Whither the classy little leather bucket bag? Wherefore the once proud sleek streamlined duffle?

I mean, really. The new designs make me *shudder*- as if my granny, once immaculately decked out in Chanel, had started parading around in a Juicy velour top with acid washed micro mini. If I wanted something made out of a quilted material, lined with fur in an ocelot pattern, then frankly, I would have just gone elsewhere. I know you can still get the good stuff, but it was far from in evidence on my recent retail tour of duty.

I despair. Is nothing sacred anymore?

In which it turns out I am disappointed after all

So. As anticipated, I am definitely Not Pregnant. Un-pregnant. Pregnancy-free. Without child. Knocked down, as opposed to knocked up.

Sorry, Mom, no need to rush down to Walgreens or wherever for an HPT. I know you had a 15% off coupon and were all psyched up to use it on some peesticks for me.

Sorry, E. I wish we knew what the problem was here. You told me tonight that you phoned the clinic, and they won't give the SA results until we speak to our RE at our next appointment. We'll have a lot to chat about, won't we, since that HSG will be going ahead after all. Guess I better not go too hog wild with the credit card since I'll now need to come up with the cash to pay for that appointment.

It's funny how the disappointment finds you, even when you thought it wouldn't. Even when you knew what was coming, and had braced yourself for another let down. Even when you told yourself all those fantasies of buying baby clothes (the exchange rate! so good! worth it to shop now!) were foolhardy in the extreme.

Even when you thought you had outrun it, gone into hiding. Gone on holiday.

Basement Stealth Post

As I have explained, I have a new laptop, and therefore some control over the posting situation, especially in terms of not accidentally leaving telltale traces back to my blog URL. This does not however assist with the lack of privacy or need to account for one's activity at all times. Our visits tend to be spent superglued into each other's company, extracting every bit of familial goodness out of the event.

However, I have managed to set up camp in a corner of the basement where I can steal away for short intervals. So the blogging method for the next week or so is going to be a little different- bite sized chunks o'Mare, with less content but more frequency. That's the theory, anyway.

For today's segment, can I join the rest of the internet in wishing the lovely Julie a hearty congrats on the birth of wee Bat. I sincerely hope all goes well there.

Also, I discovered today that my mother and I do not share similar attitudes to HPTs. I casually mentioned to her as we cleared up the dinner dishes that I would know in the next day or two if I am pregnant. Whereupon she practically frothed at the mouth, demanding that I pee on something THIS INSTANT.

I didn't actually bring any peesticks with me, since I am pretty sure I am not pregnant, but she was undeterred. So we may be making a run to the drugstore tomorrow- I may not be about the instant gratification in terms of knowing the result. But we are dealing with my mother here. And who am I to deprive her of a vicarious thrill. Or you know, not, when it comes up negative.