So, we continue down the road to a round tummy, swollen feet, and morning barfs. Does ANYONE go through this easily? Round #1 with new donor: aka will-the-goods-arrive-on-time-revisited. BFN (big fat negative) and menstrual induced foul mood leads me to send this rant to other lesbos trying to conceive:
After my stupid BFN yesterday, and the other stupid BFNs that have been going on, I'm just irritated to no end that our bodies seem to be betraying us. Honestly! We've been good to them (well, at least since we all started TTC, right?). We've fed them well (at times, too well). For years, we've provided them with wonderful things like water, occasional champagne, cheesecake, tiramisu, watermelon, hot chocolate with marshmallows, peaches, snow peas, asian food, pizza, bacalava, gyros, burgers, margaritas, mexican food, strawberry shortcake, and spaghetti squash. Don't they OWE us something in return? Is it really too much to ask for our uterus' (plural uteri?) to just latch on to a teeny, tiny cell glob as it's passing through? Can't our cervixes (plural cervices? - but I digress) just let a few swimmers into the swimming hole? Is there some sort of admission fee that the cervix police are imposing? Have the swimmers been hijacked by terrorist forces with WMDs (weapons of mothering denial)? Or is there something in the water that we should petition the government about and get it on the bi-yearly ballot like the never ending flouride debate?
I'm jealous of those who are pregnant - even though jealousy is a way to express possession. I don't want to possess another person, but I want to "possess" the experience. Although it's completely untrue, the pregnant gals here at work seem to be flaunting their cute tummies in my face, and I feel inferior because of my inability to conceive. My encouraging comments for coworker-moms-to-be are only 80% sincere today, and my semi-smile is pasted on. (By the way, faking things just pisses me off more. I can't stand being a fraud. It reminds me of my false-promise-making uterus.)
Mel's predicament is bugging the ever-lovin' crap out of me because we shouldn't have to make up stories or justify our desire to consciously, purposefully and lovingly bring a child into our lives. Straight, gay, or queer; black, red, white, or polka dotted; fashionista or fashion challenged; GED or PhD; hometown, recluse, or city slicker. Just let us get pregnant already! Then, leave us alone to revel in the beauty of morning sickness, tight clothing, stretch marks, and episiotomies. My body; my goddamn choice - not my boss', not the principal's, not my sister-in-law's - I shouldn't have to justify motherhood to anyone.
Finally, I'm a depression and stress eater. You can imagine that I'm consuming enough crap right now to feed quintuplets even though there's nobody in there. I've likely gained 17-18 pounds since my period started yesterday. I'll probably break the scale just by looking at it. You know, scare it into disrepair; this approach seems to have already worked for the interior of my truck and my hair.
Stupid BFN.
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