Barren Mare

It's the StayPuft Marshmallow Man

Little Guy firmly believes he is the centre of the universe, and so naturally, he concurs with the theory that it was because of his arrival that I finally became pregnant.  I, on the other hand, am a little less at ease with the notion. True, it does seem to be downright coinkydinkal- we get a puppy in September and I am pregnant within two months.  And I cannot deny that even now, the sight of his relentless furry cuteness, his small body coiled up on my lap, his sweet puppy face turned up toward mine- all inspire an undeniable surge of maternal feeling- which, who knows, was perhaps linked to my body finally figuring out what to do.  So I do not dismiss the idea out of hand. 

However, the reason I get a bit twitchy about the idea is that to me, it falls a bit too far into the "it was all in your head" side of the explantory spectrum. As in, all I needed to do was get myself in the correct mindset- whatever that might be; relaxed, maternal, preoccupied, detached- and boom!  It's a little bit like saying that "oh, just adopt and you'll surely get pregnant."  The reality is, we all know people to whom that has happened.  We all can name examples of women whom to all extents and purposes were getting on with their lives- either building families in different ways or else focusing on something else entirely- who suddenly and often miraculously conceived. 

And I know of a dozen women who didn't.  For whom the alternate path was the final way forward, rather than the means to achieving the original goal. But somehow nobody talks about them. Nobody says, "hey, I know a couple- they couldn't conceive but after years of unsuccessful heartbreak, instead of having a family, they traveled the world, raised three cats, grew prize-winning roses, and were very happy."  Because where's the anecdote there?  There's no obvious story to tell- no gripping last minute reprieve from the apparent life sentence of infertility.  Which is interesting, because I happen to think tales of people coming to terms with something painful and sad but ultimately moving on should be just celebrated and applauded. But these are quiet, subtle - and often very private- victories and so tend to be overlooked. 

I also have trouble with the notion that the only way to fix infertility is to somehow fixate on something else- to stop wanting what you can't have. Because let's face it, while you are in the throes of the problem, it's a bitch of a cure to achieve. I call it the the Staypuft Marshmallow Man theory. You know, from the film Ghostbusters? The bad guy tells our heroes that the next thing they think of will be the form the demon assumes to destroy the world. And despite their efforts to clear their minds, all that Dan Ackroyd's character can think of is the Stay Puft Marshmallow man.  And lo, destruction comes in the shape of gooey sweetness.  It's like that when you're trying to get pregnant, and you can't. At which point all you can think about is how much you want a baby, even if it starts to completely wreck your life.

Anyway. I'm very glad we got Little Guy, and I'm very glad I got pregnant.  And beyond that- well, it's anybody's guess.

A little spell of blue

Brrrr..shivering in the sudden Arctic cold snap which has swept the country. Things had briefly seemed there as if we were heading for a mild and pleasant Spring, but now the grim hand of winter has yanked us all by our collars right back into chillyvilles.  As I trudge to work, I feel the icy blasts of wind even more acutely, since I am now too bumped-out to button my warm winter coat properly.

We were advised this weekend that our new house will probably now not be completed until sometime in May- our original move-in date was early April.  And we have to be out of the place we are in by the first week in May.  All of which makes me say: oh poo and merde.

Slippage with new build houses is inevitable, and I knew this from the outset- even started mentally planning ahead for what we would do in the event that we had an overlap between moving out of here and getting into the new place.  But now that I am confronted by the reality, it's come as more a bummer than I had anticipated.  There's absolutely nothing we can do about it- I don't know what it's like in the States, but when you sign the contract for a off-plan property here, the developers retains an insane amount of control over completion dates- in other words, they can finish whenever they like. In one case I know of, they were two years late.  That was exceptional, of course, and I don't think we are looking at anything like that sort of delay, especially since we know for a fact that at least the exterior is largely finished.  But it could be longer than we are currently expecting.  Either way, we are going to almost certainly have an overlap.  So this means everything we own will go into storage while we rent somewhere in the interim.

It's not the end of the world, but I confess I really wish we could just get in and get on with settling in. I mean, I have nesting to do! I have loads of baby crap to buy, for crying out loud!  Well. I've decided that if it drags on into summer, I am going to start wandering back and forth in front of the not yet finished house, clutching my belly and wailing like a fishwife.  Think that might spur the builders on?

Anyway, not to sound all moany-whingey but the combination of bad weather and the whole moving fandango and some ongoing irritants on the work front has conspired to bring on a small fit of the blues. I tell myself daily that in compensation for the apparent good fortune I have recently enjoyed, I am not allowed to feel bad about anything again, ever- and certainly not small trivialities like these. But in all honesty, I do admit to being just a trifle low. Or perhaps that is just hormones talking; I found myself having a little weep over a TV advert to raise funds in aid for abused animals the other day while simultaneously rolling my eyes at what a cliche that is.

Now, where are my mittens?

Still here

All is well here, in the sense of no news is good news, but it does not make feel terribly bloggish. Now that it stays light a teeny bit later, E. and I have been making a concerted effort to take Little Guy out for a walk straight after work in the evenings, and by the time we get back, eat dinner, do the laundry and catch up on a few other chores, I find I am simply done in. I confess I am counting the days until I can stop working, which makes me feel vaguely unprofessional at times, but count I do.

Somebody said to me several weeks ago that one of the nicest things about being pregnant must be the great relief to know I'm not infertile after all. I've been thinking about this a lot since then. I suppose that, strictly speaking, it appears to be true, at least for the moment. But it's odd. It's odd to think that somehow getting pregnant can cancel out all the aggro and grief I felt during the years when we tried and tried and tried without success. During which we endured invasive testing and fertility treatment, without success or even answers as to what the problem might be. And even now, I have no idea why it suddenly happened. We didn't do anything "differently" from all the other times in the previous three years. We didn't have sex every day, I didn't lie with my feet up for an hour or stand on my head afterwards. I wasn't drinking pineapple juice or ingesting ground hen's teeth. I wasn't even particularly "relaxed"- on the contrary, I was feeling incredible harrassed and harried by various demands on my time.

When something finally, miraculously occurs, it's undeniably lovely- but it's also kind of scary. Because if you don't know why or how it happened- luck? timing? an unusual planetary alignment?- then it's hard not to believe that this is your one and only chance. That lightning can't strike twice, so if something goes awry, you're cast out of the kingdom forever, with no way back. And having finally seen your way clear to safety on the horizon, it's impossible to fathom how you might ever recover from that.

So no, "relieved" is not really the word I would choose. I feel greatly, vastly fortunate, but also hugely wary. Much of the time I feel like this happiness is on loan to me, rather than a permanent keepsake. But that's one of the life-changing aspects of infertility- there is less inclination to take anything for granted.

Anyway, we're off to a 40th birthday party this afternoon- a barbeque, of all things.  In Scotland. In March.  It's about minus 40 outside and raining. Cue another minor wardrobe crisis. None of my sweaters fit very well anymore, and all of E.'s are too baggy, but may be the only choice.  I am resigned to looking like a giant blob (but warm).