Like a Vulcan I have a logical side to my brain. Unlike a Vulcan I am guided more often than not by my emotions. This causes a problem. The logical side says “yea we ovulated, 49.3 means we ovulated well, but that is all it means. Its not predictive of fertilization” The emotional side of me says “HOLY SHIT we ovulated, and with a number like that there is no way I can’t be pregnant” Lets not forget that the test was drawn at 4 days post ovulation, and that its normal for the corpus luteum to still be producing its own progesterone. Yeah, let’s forget all of that.
Instead let me start imagining a belly. Let me start imagining actually carrying a baby out of the first trimester. Let me start imagining how wonderful it will be to tell everyone at 13 weeks that I am pregnant again. Ok, maybe 8 weeks after we have seen the heart beat, but not a minute before. As I walked into the room that was to be our nursery to get some clean clothes I imagined what it will look like with a crib in it and with the walls painted a nice pale green. How once I get my BFP that I won’t mind so much when I see a pregnant woman in the office, or on the street. How I will want to hear about their baby’s kicks, and how far along they are. This is dangerous. I have set the bar so high that if, no when I fall, with the arrival of Auntie Flow that it is going to leave some indelible marks.
Making matters worse is that I visited blog of old. I wanted to see how I felt at 5 days post ovulation, and sadly I feel like I do today. Only then my girls were sore if I poked them. Today they are like day old latex party balloons that you find under the couch—flaccid and pain free. No matter which way I poke or prod I am getting nothing out of them. It was at 6 days post O that I started the nightly “off to the potty I go” at 4:30 a.m., but that too doesn’t seem to be on the horizon. Nor am I craving corn chips and taco bell like I was last time either.
I remember being this neurotic once before. I was a new navy wife and had already had one miscarriage. Yet everyone else around me was becoming pregnant the second the Billfish was back in its pier, or else they were pregnant shortly there after. Only then I was able to move through the cycles quickly. After all, I was on Clomid, and I was only 24. I had 11 years until I turned 35 which was our cut off for trying to conceive. Now, 11 years is turning into months. I turn 34 in November, and sadly enough this year is just racing by.
Curiosity killed the cat, and ignorance is bliss….well call me a highly educated Garfield then because ignorance is not my forte’ and neither is caution…