I’d love to be regaling you all with wild and witty observations of Devilboys nutty behaviour and the mayhem of motherhood (fear not, lunacy still prevails in the house of Devilboy) but alas, my brain has shrunk to the size of something very, very small that I can’t think of right now. Words evade me. I have been rendered a moron.
My memory is so battered from all the ghastly Casa Conception medications that when I went to pick Devilboy up from childcare this afternoon, I signed him out then left without him! I realised after I walked out the door and was almost at the car that it was afternoon and that I was picking up, not dropping off and that I had forgotten my son.
Sheepishly I returned for him. Luckily, the girls at childcare were already on high stupidity alert as I’d left his bag behind twice last week and signed him in as ‘Madeleine Burge’ yesterday. Please do not ask me who Madeleine Burge is, for I know not. Nor do I know why I would confuse my beloved Devilboy for she. After these little indiscretions I figured it may be an idea to let them in on my little IVF secret so they didn’t call DOCS about the crazy lady.
IVF is such a different experience this time around. ‘Tis quite odd – we’re over a week of serious stabbing in and yet it still feels to both M and I like something we’re planning on doing soon, as opposed to a process that’s been underway for weeks. This may be because at our advanced ages we’re in the early stages of senility, or that we’re distracted by a lunatic 17 month old whirling Devilboy… or simply because we are quite thick.
It’s probably a good thing as we’ll be less prone to fret about the process and its possible outcomes if we aren’t so focused – but I feel so uninvolved compared to round one. Whilst elements were icky, I actively enjoyed most of the process last time. It was an adventure and scientific and weirdly creative, like I was involved in some Frankensteinish craft project to make a baby. This time it’s almost like background noise.
The presence of a small devilish man makes even needle time less ritualistic than before and has certainly seen an end to cups of tea being delivered to my bedside each morning with my fully prepped needle. Now it’s all quite mundane. The cat gets his insulin injection, I get my stupid injection. Job done. Brain dead. If I get the injections muddled up, which given the sorry state of my head is a definite possibility, the cat may be up the duff and I’ll be laying prostrate in a hypoglycemic coma. With so many needle dependents – coupled with a house that has been trashed by the loony little one – anyone looking in our window would think they had stumbled on an injecting room in Darlinghurst.
Mind you, morning stabbings aren’t completely without ritual as Devilboy has added his own special touch to proceedings. As I take the cap of the needle ready to jab myself, he lifts his t-shirt, pokes his belly and loudly announces “OUCH!” on my behalf! He then pisses himself laughing at me. Bastard!
This morning I had my first bloodwork at Casa conception and even that felt humdrum as I was looked after by Nurse Dullard who spoiled all my fun as she didn’t even make the presentation of the glamorous Puregon show bag exciting. Harrumph! So matter of fact was she, that I didn’t even get a second to imagine all the lovely gifts that could have been in the bag, had this been Hollywood and not an IVF clinic and it weren’t filled with boring drugs, syringes, icepacks and a sharps container.
My favourite nurse from round one – she who we refer to, with affection, as ‘The Stabber’ – is still about and she rang me today for a conspirital giggle and to let me know that it’s already time for the bastard injection to rear its ugly head and for me to start double dipping the needles. What fun!
From tomorrow those teensy tiny chickens will once again start scratching about in their ovarian henhouse to prepare lots of comfy little nests for all the eggs.
Go chickens, go.