So I am trying to knock myself up. That's the deal, the all-consuming, sadly-not-yet-ending, why-is-it-not-my-turn-now deal.
Somewhere, hidden in the deep recesses of my hard drive, is a journal sort of thing I tried to pull together last summer about ttc. I will try and find it and dump it here in all it's sniveling, wallowing glory.
For the moment, though, I got a negative test this morning and so I feel like I am out of the game this cycle. My temp is still up and there's no blood yet, but really, I thinks it's done. Poo, as the kids say. Or, jesus motherfucking christ, as I say.
This was the last, truly the last, of the "good" months, the ones that work well with the school year, and buy me a little bit more time off than just summer break. After this month, it will really be a full two years since I started this - with the box of frozen sperm being delivered to school when my classroom was full of brand-new parents phasing-in their children, with my ever patient boss running outside to take a picture of the fed-ex guy because it was such a momentous occasion, with my naive attitude of "this will be a snap" and the eventual crash and burn at the end of the two week wait.
Two years and there is very little to show for it: no baby, just a full, extra serving of empathy for folks who want babies and don't yet have them and new, larger serving of bitterness. Oh, and the desire to write more, which is good, I guess.