Shifting

This is new: this month, for the first time, it was J~ keeping track of my cycle, checking up on our baby-making schedule day after day, ensuring that we put in our allotted time between the sheets. Meanwhile, my mind was surprisingly removed and detached from the subject (not that I wasn't pleased, not that I didn't enjoy it).

I wonder if my biological clock is winding down. I wonder if I'm simply letting go, accepting the very real possibility that babies are not in the cards for me. Or maybe I'm just getting excited about my garden, my artwork, the Saturday morning bicycling club I've joined, how good my body feels since I took to eating nothing but fruit before noon, nothing but salad (a well-embellished salad, however) for lunch, and lots more vegetables for dinner. Perhaps my yearning for parenthood is crowded out by other fulfillments. Then again, maybe this is exactly the letting go I need before that dream, like so many other dreams in life, can simply happen on it's own...

As always, I'll keep you posted.

ps. sometimes I sprinkle cinnamon on my fruit. Delicious.

Soup not Cake

I haven't gotten around to buying more pregnancy tests. I felt so depressed Friday morning, I sat in front of daytime television – the Food Network, my weakness – for two hours. There have been times in my life when this wouldn't be so unusual, but these days, it's a bad bad sign. But I got through it, thanks to back-to-back episodes of Ace of Cakes, a show following the crazy custom cake makers of Baltimore's Charm City Cakes. Good medicine, and I'll tell you why.

First of all, I am yet to be made hungry by images of cakes shaped like trucks, or buildings, or helmets, or a great big meat ball, or by icing applied in green leafy patterns with a paint brush, or in metallic gloss with an airbrush... I could go on, but the point is, depression and artificially-induced hunger are not a good idea for me, and novelty cakes don't induce anything but amusement. Thank goodness.

Reason number two: The people of Charm City are quirky and imperfect and cute and clearly care about each other. Again, I could go on, but the point is: the show is heartwarming. It reminds me that you don't have to be perfect to be loved. And that I am, indeed, loved. So I turned off the TV and got back to life.

And by life, I mean weeding the garden. Emailing clients. Scanning artwork and planning for a commissioned piece. Cooking for my weekend guests (soup, not cake). Making plans for a Saturday morning bike ride. Getting my period...

Life goes on.

Hope Springs Eternal

I couldn't get to sleep last night, and I needed to go to the bathroom, so I did a test. It was negative. Ten days past ovulation, so that doesn't necessarily mean anything. But in the morning, there was the thinnest thread of a second line. I know, I know, you're not supposed to even look at the test after ten minutes, but I got excited just the same. J~ got excited too. I did another test this morning, a different brand, and this one was flat out negative. And then I searched the web and read about evap lines and realized I'm probably not pregnant after all.

Here's an excerpt from PeeOnAStick.com:

"Question: The line appeared after the 10-minute time limit. Is it still positive?
Answer: No. You can't rely on any test results that appear after the time limit... HPT's are rapid assay diagnostics, which means any results appearing after the "rapid" time limit of 10 minutes are invalid-- after this time, natural changes in the chemicals may cause lines to appear. (Please don't e-mail me to say this happened to you and you really were pregnant. The odds of having this occur and still end up pregnant are the same as the odds of having any false negative and later detecting pregnancy. In other words, the test is still considered negative... )"

Here's the ridiculous thing: I keep looking at this morning's test, hoping a second late, meaningless line will appear.

Of course J~ and I will probably buy more tests in the coming days. Of course more negative results will not completely deter me from the fantasy. I know the pattern by now: I will wait at the edge of my seat until the day after tomorrow, when I will likely begin to bleed.

Or maybe I won't bleed! See, there it is already, hope springing eternal. Any seeds of doubt are muffled by more rosy scenarios rolling though my mind. In case I do bleed, I'm already turning over the motor on next month's fantasy-engine. This must be what compulsive gambling feels like. Yes, it's good to be hopeful. But it's also exhausting.

I Admit It

Sometimes I feel extremely foolish having any hope at all, after so many failures. But here it is, I admit it: I have my hopes up this month.

I could potentially test tomorrow...

Why am I hopeful? No good reason, actually. I haven't had any telltale symptoms. My breasts are sore, but that's typical of this time of the month. We did put in a good effort this time around, however. And it is spring. Birds and bees and flowers and all. Plus, Megan/Henrietta was in the yard yesterday afternoon, neatly nibbling wild violets, leaves and flowers both. She also ate a big yellow dandelion. Now that has to count for something.