Call me Miss Congeniality
I feel bad following up Jen’s wonderful news with my own grouchy rambling. But I’m afraid that’s what I’m about to do.
I’m a mess today. Thankfully, I chose to work from home because both of our cats have colds and I wanted to keep an eye on them. I spent half the day crying or wanting to cry, and the rest of it steaming and fuming over stupid shit. I’m just a dreamy dreamsicle at the moment.
I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m frustrated. What else is new? It is the latter part of the two week wait, after all. But I swear on all that is holy that until this morning I was actually feeling really optimistic. I mean really, I ovulated *five* eggs this cycle, people, and we had two IUI’s that were timed just right, immediately before and after ovulation. Our odds can’t get much better than that. So yeah. I’ve been going about my business assuming that at the end of this two week wait, I’ll find out I can finally call myself a mother.
Then I wake up this morning feeling like I’ve slammed into a brick wall. Nothing happened, nothing changed physically to make me have any doubts. My boobs are still sore as all get-out and I’m bloated and have heartburn and gas. (More reasons I’m a dreamy dreamsicle). But my optimism is gone. Poof.
Which I hate. I don’t want to exude negative energy, I don’t want any little embryos that might be in there to read my mind and say “Oh wait, she’s a cranky bitch? Nevermind, let’s get out of here.” I don’t want to make my husband and other loved ones miserable with my confusing mood swings and tantrums. John actually asked me several times this morning what was wrong, even though I kept insisting it was just hormones. I realize it’s hard to wrap your head around when you have never been there yourself.
I blame the progesterone suppositories. It’s all I can do. I am 9 dpo and pumped full of hormones that don’t technically belong to me; it’s no wonder I’m acting like the Incredible Hulk. Or Oscar the Grouch. Any fictional green character you like. That’s me.
I need to suck it up. In four days I’ll know whether this cycle was a success or not. I can do this. Four days. It’s nothing, right? I’ve waited 17 months. 17 fucking months. I can do four days.
So time to put on a happy face. Maybe my insides will be fooled.