Pod person

Help. me. Help. meeeeeeeeee. (said in the tiny, squeaking voice of The Fly). I'm turning into one of THEM.

Throughout this infertility journey...nay, mindfuck (I call it like I see it folks), I have taken great pride in the fact that I have not sacrificed my lifelong ambivalence and general dislike of children. I have not allowed myself to become all gooey and sentimental at the mere sight of a swollen belly or a gurgling infant. It's not who I am, and three long old years of infertility have only slightly weakened my resistance to all things children.

However, during my recent meltdown I had a moment of clarity. I came to the realisation that I do in fact want a child. I don't want someone's else child, so the random stranger pushing a pram down the street can keep her screaming brat without making me wistful. I was stressing about my paper, work, and every other little thing in my life, and it dawned on me that all of that paled in comparison to my desire to have a child. Given that I'm 27 and already staring down the barrel at IVF it may not be a biological child, but I'm fine with that. Cynical, embittered, innapropriate sense of humour-having, me.

I know it seems like a foregone conclusion that someone with an infertility blog would want a child. I am an enigma people, you should know that by now. In all the time that I have been attempting to get pregnant I haven't actually acknowledged that I *could* get pregnant and that it *could* lead to a real, live, breathing human being. Because of that denial, I haven't actually confronted the idea of being a mother. Now that I have realised that this appears to be the most important objective in my life at the moment, I'm forced to confront the fact that jesus...I might genuinely want one of these baby things. You know, to mother. Mind-boggling stuff.

Tune in next week, when my rapid descent into corniness finds me showering you all with babydust, buying dozens of Anne Geddes prints to plaster on the walls of the flat about which I will screech, "Oh isn't that just DARLING?" Consider yourselves warned.

C'est moi

For a limited time only. Me. Yes, I've altered the colouring a bit, but only because it makes me look far better.

It's a reference from "The Office", as requested by my Cheese Wife. I modified it slightly for the viewing public. This will only remain up until I wake up tomorrow morning and check my emails, whereupon I expect to see at least 40 emails expounding on my unearthly, all-consuming beauty. Recognise.

EDIT: This is the new me. I have been trying to get the real photo down all day, but Blogger was being a complete asshole. Go figure. However, I must admit I liked all the nice comments. Aww...I feel all warm and tingly inside. As far as the alteration of the original photo, the only thing I did was lighten it a bit and scribble out my name. It's amazing what the proper lighting can do for a girl.

The Secret Handshake

Before I launch into my newest IF-related diatribe, I thought I'd mention that re: my last post about Young Martha, it has occurred to me that she might be one of us. She's been married for at least 2 years now, and as someone who wanted to drive her 8 kids around in a minivan it's suspect that she has not yet spawned. Additionally, there is weight gain. Even if she is a member of the hypercool, ultratrendy IFers 4 Lyf club, I still don't like her. So there.

Onto the matter at hand...because my attempt at writing my project failed miserably, I was cajoled by The Dude to submit an extenuating circumstances form, citing my mystery, most likely Metformin-related illness which unconveniently stuck around for the wrong month of the year. Adding to that the failed and final IUI, and it was just a bad time all round.

When I was filling in the form, I had to use the word "infertility" and it felt wrong. Not that I'm still coming to terms with being ovulatorily shortchanged, but sharing it with strangers made me feel shameful and defensive. Shameful because I hate talking about infertility outside the blog and The Dude. Defensive because I know the form will be looked at and queried. No doubt it will be assessed by Smug Fertiles, or alternatively the Contented Childless. I don't imagine there will be an Emotionally Ravaged Infertile present to weigh in on the matter.

People that have not experienced infertility, whether firsthand or indirectly by way of close friends/relatives, tend to be so blase and infuriatingly patronising about infertility that I don't think my explanation of my poor performance will be taken seriously. It's funny that something that is so central to our lives is diminished so much by people outside the IF circle. I felt as if I had to write a page long explanation as to how very all-consuming infertility, and in this particular case, the side effects of the related medications, truly is. To think we wonder where all the bitterness comes from...

Veering completely off topic now, my Cheese Queen Molly tagged me to do this:

THE RULES:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five people to do the same

I said this: "In reality, I think I'm massively unprepared despite the great lengths I'm going to in order to make it happen."

Such a boring sentence, especially as most of my blog posts are feeble attempts at being humorous. The post itself was centred around my questions concerning my suitability as a potential mother, doubts that I still have. I mean, I only wrote that in February of last year, so of course not much has changed. However, this exercise did make me realise that my early blogging is cringeworthy.

I'm going to totally not play along, as I will not tag anyone. Ha. Mainly because I think all of the people that read/comment here have already done it and I'm too lazy to really research who has and hasn't. I can't help it. I'm an infertile, and we are all selfish, drug-addled she beasts that just need to relax.

Dodging the bullet

Question: What is worse than yet *another* unsuspecting drive-by at work?

Answer: A secondary source drive-by via email at 3am when you have been staring blankly at a computer screen (with some intermittent typing) for 18 hours and are starting to hallucinate. I rubbed my eyes but the text remained the same: "She did not look as if she was in the condition to be pushing a shopping cart." Innocuous enough, perhaps, but...but...

The person that was being spoken of is an ex-associate at the large bookstore I often speak of. Satan incarnate in the form of a young Martha Stewart. I'm talking Gap on speed -- khakis all day, every day, conservative jewellery, modest yet stylish sandals, and the piece de resistance: the ever-present sweater carefully draped on her shoulders and knotted. When she would sport this look I'd put on my posh "old money" voice and say to my co-worker (and current spy), "Dahling...that look is so Martha's Vineyard circa 1986."

Yes, she could be forgiven for her sincere crimes against fashion. However, you must know that anyone who dresses like this also is in severe need of behaviour modification by way of electroshock therapy or thumb screws. Young Martha's hair was always perfectly curled and coifed, and she had a predisposition to exaggerated facial expressions. Lots of looks of wide-eyed wonderment, mouth agape, and that limp-wristed "Oh I don't belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve it" motion of the arm that the dramatic often utilise.

Naturally Young Martha loved children. In fact, she was going to college to be a first grade teacher. My belief was that she pursued this career because anything past that level would be a bit too mentally trying for her. I often despaired for the children that would be taught by this vacuous puffhead. Young Martha supervised the Children's section of not Barnes and Noble and delighted in speaking in apparent child-friendly voices during story time, naturally making full use of wide eyes and mock surprise.

My favourite Young Martha story occurred soon after my second and "real" wedding to The Dude. I have never been the type to fantasise about my own wedding. I had a beautiful dress and was able to get married in a 13th century church. That's all I needed. We had a very small reception with no frills and we left for our honeymoon in Lille within a couple of hours of arriving at the reception venue. I was drunk and don't even know what our family did after we left, nor did I care. Anyway...when I got back to work post-marriage, I was showing my photographs to my co-workers, most of whom were polite enough to "oooo" and "ahhhh" in the right places. Not Young Martha. Young Martha, who was in the early stages of planning her own preppy hell country club wedding said, "Oh Pru, I wish I could not put any effort into my wedding. I've been stressing out majorly when all you've done is show up. I wish I could have the courage to do that." Bitch.

So back to the drive-by in question. Deflated, I emailed my source and asked if he was in fact insinuating that Young Martha has found herself with child. I anxiously awaited his reply and this infertile for once, has not been dealt a swift kick to her polycystic ovaries by the powers that be this day. Young Martha is not pregnant. She's. just. really. fat. As my friend said, "It seems she is following a high carb diet." I really shouldn't be this pleased. The stars have realigned, if only for a moment, and this made me smile. I am the definition of evil.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Thanks for all the anti-female friend solidarity expressed in the last post's comments.

I am, however, a stupid, ignorant cow. I go on and on about female drama, yet my entire weekend has been composed of me wailing and flailing. As I've mentioned before, I have this godawful project thing due tomorrow and I am so unprepared for its submission it's not even funny. In fact, I'm so unprepared that I'm blogging when I should be writing it. This weekend has found me mostly crying and lamenting, with poor Dude attempting to comfort me with, "You can only do your best." over and over again. It's his new mantra. Apparently he thinks that when I hear it for the one hundredth time I may believe it. He's a dear soul sometimes.

So here I am, agonising and flipping out. She who despises female drama is being melodramatic to heights yet unknown. What a hypocrite.

I shall keep telling myself that the difference between them and me is that I'm not projecting all this angst and misery on unsuspecting friends. Oh wait...so I AM. Shit.