I am rather chuffed to reveal that the reason for my recent bloggy silence is that I’ve been far too busy sticking my head down a toilet bowl pretty much continuously for the past three months to really commit to anything else.
After a ridiculously traumatic twelve months of playing IVF Roulette we had finally gotten the hint that no amount of uterine redecorating, fertility iconography, needles, drugs, careful cajoling or desperate pleading was going to entice any self-respecting embryo to hang about in my shoddy womb for nine months and we were prepared to accept the sad reality and throw in the reproductive towel.
But just to spite our hard fought decision, seven has proven to truly be the luckiest of lucky numbers for us. Our septimal round of pin the embryo on the uterus, with our very last little embryonic ice cube, worked (talk about cutting it fine, I think our emby’s may have watched too many crap Hollywood movie endings) and we are now most pregnant.
I’ve been a 24/7 nausea machine since around week three, am so exhausted that my efforts of communication have been reduced to a series of laboured blinks and grunts, occasionally interspersed with raging hormonal tantrums. And while we are ecstatic to the point of dribbling lunacy, getting to this point hasn’t been without a few further hick-ups including a rather foolish tumble down the stairs by the ever graceful yours truly.
But… it was a rather frightening trip down amnio lane (after testing high for risk of chromosomal disorders) that has had us most concerned and protectively sitting on our news. Not so much in fear of something being wrong with our precious cargo but in fear of the risk of miscarriage that amnio’s like to accessorize with.
Happily, we’ve been given the all clear and bouncing bub number two is, quite freakishly, due to meet us on his big brothers third birthday.
The ever loony Devilboy is particularly excited by his imminent birthday present as, having witnessed the ultrasounds of his sibling to be, he has concluded without a shadow of a doubt that I have a “tiny little shark… and a rainbow” in my tummy. Dad of Devilboy and I also find this exciting as giving birth to either of these will guarantee such fame and fortune from selling the rights to our story to News of the World that we’ll rake in at least enough to cover all the frigging IVF expenses. “Woman gives birth to shark… and rainbow” now, that’s a headline – in fact, there might even be a book and movie rights in it.
As I type away our “tiny little shark” is happily swimming away amongst the rainbow that is my uterus and we three (and a bit) are very, very happy and are very, very pleased to finally be able to share our news with our friends.