focus baby

One boxing class, two glasses of red, ice cream and no topping.

Well after the adventures of a blogging virgin yesterday, I shopped. Woo hoo chemist warehouse. I bought one of those ovulation sampler kits (seriously, why were we not built with a flashing neon sign to tell us fertiliy is nigh) and some more get-a-baby-vitamins. I also lost focus and bought a whole lot of other crap. I managed to buy a lifetime supply of the WRONG vitamins WITHOUT the lets-not-give-birth-to-a-mutant folic acid, so I’ll have to go out and purchase more. Idiot. I hate that.

On the way home I stopped to feed my friend’s cat. This is my fourth cat this year. I am officially a cat lady now. What is it about me that says “hey I’d feed your cat while you’re on holidays?” They are on holidays for ten days. This kitten is a real little shite. He bights like buggery. I am not surprised though – they spend no little time with him. So I bought him kitten food (softy) and he was pretty happy with that. And while he ran around and wore himself out I sat in their backyard and read the instructions on the ovulation sampler bag. He kept trying to eat the part about peeing on the stick.  And there’s nothing like peeing on a stick to put us in the mood for love, is there?

Finally, after the cat feeding duties, with bite marks all over my shoes, I headed home. Hub in boots had beat me in the door, so i am surreptitiously stashing all baby related merch (vitamins, sampler bag) in the back of random draws so as not to freak out his delicate masculine sensibilities. He was positioned on the couch like he’d never move again…I can’t win. He’s totally absent in footy season, running kilometres and kilometres a week, and when it isn’t footy season he’s like a buddha, sitting in the corner. Though buddha did not generally sink beers, which is the other problem with off season…

So what do I do? I decide to pee on a stick with him just 10 metres away. Subtle. ducking in an out of the bathroom checking the timer. Blasted ovulation lottery. Seriously. He’s saying “hey look at  this on tele” and I’m going “yeah babe, wow that’s cool!”. Inside I’m going only one line and we’re at three minutes now, damn. It must be a competitive thing. I mean does it really matter if there’s only one line? I was at day 16 which actually is probably a bit late for ovulation (so google tells me). Do I keep peeing on sticks every day? Or just leave the bloody thing  tell next month? I am betwixt and between. I think I’ve missed my window…but we were at it like rabbits. You don’t actually HAVE to have a stick to tell you when to go for it.

Hub in boots is being a bit of a problem at present. There’s this weird twilight thing going on where the “mad old mate” is in town from Vietnam. All the drunken, stoned, mad stories of his twenties include mad old mate. And after two years of dating and 10 months of marriage, I still hadn’t met mad old mate. So I thought it was reasonable to request this.  From the stories of his legend, he was insane, drunken, wild, lived in various animal houses and was the ring leader of trouble. I imagined someone six foot tall, handsome with boyish charm. Every time he comes to Sydney mad old mate organising “the Grande bouffe”. It is a giant dinner, somewhere nice, with excellent wines, where they pore over all the old escapades and create a few new ones, losing a day or two along the way. Trouble is:blokes only.  I mean I’m cool with that, but I think as someone defined as “one of my best mates” I should, hub in boots, get a chance to meet him.

turns out he’s 1. decidedly middle aged (looking 10 years older than hub in boots) 2. married and kidded up with a vietnamses family 3. is not tall, not handsome, and wears coke bottle glasses. The legend, my friends, is dead. And he actually wasn’t all that entertaining.

I went to boxing before we dropped in to see mad old mate. My class was so ridiculously full on I couldn’t tell if I was going to spew or faint. It was ugly ugly ugly. I got home, and was unable to speak during the ten minute turn around from sweaty to ready to go. Hub in boots? Hub in boots had NOT cooked the beef stir fry I’d left for tea. No no no. He’d fried some chips (what the?) and made sandwiches. Sandwiches. For dinner. with the SAME toppings as the ones I made for lunch. I think he’s missing the point just quietly. Luckily the friends we were dropping in on had a  barbeque on. Phew. I was starving, and bloody turkey bloody sandwiches were just not going to fly.

I thought about sex last night, then shuffled deeper into my pillow and my I-only-got-one-line-no-proper-dinner-at-home-buggered-from-boxing-sick-of-mad-old-mate mood, and went to sleep. zzzzzz

Let the games begin

Met on net. Start to date. One year in. It’s not too late. Hold my breath. Two years smile. Really happy in March.  Up the aisle. My Hub-in-boots. A lovely man. You want kids? I’m not a fan. November 2010, he says I’m ready. We talk some more, make sure we’re steady. A leap of faith, a step off cliff! I’m getting old, he’s getting stiff! I mean in his back what were you thinking ? Am I too old? Should I be drinking? Will it be this month? Will we have a win? Maybe baby? Let the games begin.

Welcome to the adventures of maybe baby and hub-in-boots. A girl has got to have an outlet. It was enough to get him to yes once, to walk up the aisle (without actually saying anything). At 38 I was holding my breath but he was there in March last year, good to his word. We’ve been married for 10 months, and I’d say very happily for most of those. Apart from the moving house bit. So he said I do. And we did. And we’ve had a fun half a year being together and moving in. We’ve been living it up.

But then was the next big hurdle. I turned 39. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. We had agreed a long time ago to have kids. The trouble with hub-in-boots is always timing. Happy to do it “in the future” just not now. In November he stepped up to the plate and said he was good to go.

It is a strange strange feeling, after years of being single dating girl, to actively seek the very thing you avoided. A pregnancy. Even the word still freaks me out. People have talked about the guilt you get becoming a mother, but seriously? I have reconsidered every little thing since we’ve decided to start trying. I’ve got pre pregnancy guilt. I should be on the vitamins a month before we start. I’m googling like a mad woman. (And let me tell you some of those sites are dodgy dodgy dodgy). And bloody Catholic school education has a lot to answer for. Everything is about not doing it (not that I listened of course), so its impossible to get your head around the flipside! But he’s just got to yes, of his own accord, no nagging, and I’ve been at yes for about 18 months. So I can’t flood him with all of my questions and fears and hopes and anxieties and information. I’ve got a diary and I’m counting the days. Maybe baby, that’s what the net is for. Let’s vent.

It’s a grand adventure we’re embarking on. I’m excited. He’s happy to be getting quite a bit. I’m monitoring the timing, in my own casual kind of lets just google my fertile dates kind of way. He looks at me oddly when I occasionally lie in bed, post you know what with my legs in the air and my hips on a pillow. It all of this really necessary? I don’t know. I’m a bit of a dill about these things. I LOOK like a bloody lunatic. I’m just trying to quietly quietly maximise our chances. I hope like hell we don’t have trouble. I know so many IVF’ers our age. I hope we’re not doing the rounds of medicos in a year’s time after a 12 months of trying. Life just isn’t structured right anymore – there’s a total mismatch between our roles, lifestyles and fertility. Throw in career aspirations, travel and a couple of degrees, and all of a sudden it feels too damn late. Chancing it. Dicing with destiny. I am wishing someone told me to freeze my eggs when I was 30.

It’s funny this game we’re playing. It’s also funny how no one really tells anyone that they are trying for a baby. Do they? To me, it just doesn’t seem to be discussed. Perhaps because my circle of friends are either already well and truly kidded up or well and truly still up to their necks in dates, mosh pits and work commitments. I mean, what if you tell people and then you can’t get there? What if everyone is asking? Nudge nudge wink wink. I ALMOST told family members, but then didn’t.

Maybe baby’s adventures with fertile googling, charting, overall stupidity and paranoia, and general non baby related tales of hub-in-boots to follow. In the meantime, I’ll continue my quiet ‘hello how about its’ moves, reading random emails from random websites about monitoring your fertility (to much of which my inner 13 year old goes GROSS!), and continue my ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy with hub-in-boots. Unfortunately my academic brain has turned it into a research project with a deadline, and I’m reading the latest scientific research and trying to establish what our chances are. I’m like a compulsive gambler with the latest form guide. I want to intellectualise it, as though having more information would mean better odds. It is probably all about control. Who knows. I would like to rush out and buy one of those ovulation monitoring kits (kind of, but don’t they make for awkward conversation at the checkout?), a basal thermometer (what the?), and TRY not to freak little hub-in-boots out. Lucky for me he’s virtually always good to go, but I must say those supposed fertile windows always seem to co-incide with a late night when I’d rather be getting some precious sleep! The poor bugger didn’t know what hit him last night – he’d been asleep for an hour when the doco I was watching ended, and I suddenly remembered we’re on day 14 and it’s time to party. It’s a lot to think about. I’m so paranoid I’m going to miss a “window” I’m afraid I’ll wear him out.