Testing, testing.

Four tests, four negatives.

What a wonderful way to kick off yet another week of waiting. You’d think by eighteen days post-ovulation, some form of little pink line would show up. I’d convinced myself it was there, and that it was just the shoddy bathroom lighting that obscured my view. Nineteen days, ditto. Twenty two days – I must be experiencing late-onset blindness. Because I couldn’t see that stupid line.


A digital test was no better. I waited diligently, trying to avoid staring at that little flashing clock. And then…Bam! “No, sorry,” said the test. “The most diplomatic way for me to crush your hopes and dreams is with this obnoxious little frowny face.” Damn you, digital test. Check out MY frowny face.


And then came Saturday morning. A fifteen-point drop in temperature accompanied by the biggest, swiftest kick to the uterus imaginable. And there go my hopes for June. Hey – at least now I won’t be due in February, quite possibly J’s biggest month at work, and in my humble opinion, the worst month of the year. Horrible February, damp, cold, with no end in sight. And it taunts us by being exactly four weeks long – hoping that will soften the blow of its Seasonal Affective Disorder-inducing temperatures. Wrong. Cue three-dozen Snickerdoodle cupcakes, emerging from the oven into my open mouth. Who says I’m an emotional eater?


So there’s no baby this month, and no baby in February. But there’s a new outlet for my frustrations, in the form of this blog (with captive audience). Maybe this’ll protect J’s sanity. It’s already far too late for mine.


Without further ado, welcome. Enjoy the muddled mess that is my thoughts. Maybe I’ll even bake you a cupcake.

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