K-Middy and me…both on bump watch

If there’s one thing that drives us fertility-challenged girls more crazy than conceiving itself, it’s being told to ‘relax’. And if you’re not careful, you could find yourself in the firing line of a rather sharp object heading towards your head the next time you tell someone to ‘stop thinking about it’. Not safe words to be said to a woman of extrodinarily high hormone levels. For one: You don’t actually know if it will happen, and telling her to just ‘stop thinking about it’ is a bit like putting yourself inside a shark cage with an open door, and saying nothing can get you. Thirdly, if guys you work out how many times guys think about sex every day – multiply that by a hundred and you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark of how much it consumes our crazy little heads. I have reached the stage where if someone told me to eat nothing but fish heads for a week because that would guarantee conceiving, then hell yeah, I’d be loading them into my car boot my the bucketload. But it’s quite possible the next person who tells me ‘it’ll happen’ may just find the toe of a four inch stiletto rammed firmly into their rectum.

This is pretty much how my life goes now that getting pregnant is making me crazier than Britney in a head shaving binge my passtime. I haven’t long been on the fertility runaway train but it’s holding on tighter than Muhammad Ali in a title fight, it’s been long enough and I already want to get the hell off at the next frigging stop.

And so it is that once again, I find myself emotionally acquainted with my bathroom floor. There’s an empty pink and silver foil wrapper scattered at my feet and I feel like a pregnancy test junkie…waiting, anxiously, for the little pee stick to turn pink through its viewing window. I haven’t been this excited about peeing since I once got stuck in a line at a concert after skulling my beer and was bursting so badly I thought my bladder would self-implode.

I ought to point out here, I am textbook symptomatic. I suffer evil bouts of morning sickness at the slightest hint of a small person inhabiting my womb. I am just slightly more hormonally-insane and desperate with each passing baby-less day and now, whenever either one of my mammaries feels sensitive, or if I feel the teensiest bit queasy, I’m absolutely certain they are signs. If I feel hungry…I decide yep, definitely with child. If I crave chocolate – oh, for sure I’m knocked up. Don’t feel like running for six k’s today? You can bet your grant auntie’s ruby ring I’ve got a bun in the oven.

At this point in time, my belly is feeling slightly more rounded and I feel more nauseous than a hangover after a night on French martinis. Well, almost. And no, it’s not due to the half kg of camembert and French bread I downed earlier…my chest feels as though it’s made of china and could break on touching (and by that I mean don’t come within a tiger’s whisker of my top half or I will be forced to bite your arm off). So off I go to the pharmacy in pursuit of a Test. Yes, one of thooose tests. Oh but how many freaking pregnancy tests do they sell?! Of course I do what any normal hormone-riddled woman would do. I buy all five of them.

‘Never can be too certain,’ I smile at the girl who serves me as she shifts slightly uncomfortably on her feet and scans the barcode of each pink box before depositing the collection into a non-transparent paper bag. She smiles – one of those false ‘I’m not sure if you’re credibly sane’ lip creases – and sends me on my way.

Good. At least no one will see I’ve purchased enough pregnancy tests to keep a Malaysian baby racquet going for a month. I shove my stash under my arm and make for the exit, feeling a little like a K-Middy trying to avoid the paps. Except I’m not Royal. And I’m not as skinny as her. And I’ve got blonde hair.

I take out my first test. Says it’s 99% accurate which at this stage, I’m happy to accept. Setting the little plastic test up on the bench (yes, on top of some toilet paper, in case you were concerned) and wait for the window to do its thing as the traces of pee climb their hike toward their uncovering destination.

Utterly hormonal, impatient and a little bit (okay a frickin lot) anxious before taking said test and awaiting its result is almost as nerve wracking as your first virginal shag. The test says you must wait three minutes before it’s reading can be accurate, but it’s pretty clear to see that there is only one measly little bloody pink line.

The Scorpian in me says it’s too early to tell. The control freak in me decides it could be a faulty test. I thank myself for purchasing another four tests as backup. Very good Girl Guide, always be prepared (not that I ever was a girl guide but I still think I would have made a good one). This one says you’ll get better results if you test first thing in the morning.

So, the following day, with all my fingers, toes and nostrils crossed I get busy with my second test. I wait for the window to slowly develop… a sudden rush of excitement and then it dissipates faster than a drunk 19-year-old’s knickers.

Shitballs, I’m back to square one. Only one scummy little prick of a line. This is going to be one veeery long process. Waiting is crap. Especially when you have the well-adjusted patience of a four-year-old.

Now I have a whole entire month to go…I should have been born in a different star sign…

Hugs, Lady Mama Gxx