moving right along...

My period arrived Monday morning, which means The Parenthood Plan® has moved from the Tepid Handshake Phase and onto the veritable Hows Your Father Phase. From here on in, my privates will no longer be soley mine, and nor will they be particularly private.

Have I mentioned how hard the waiting is? Because it is. My stupid period isn't predictable, so this last month has been a mess of wondering and worrying if it will show up at all. It did and I'm proud of my girl parts, which have, after years of doing the reproductive organ equivilant of reclining elgantly on a lawn chair while sipping mint juleps, quite valiantly reported for active duty.

I know I haven't written about this stuff in a while, but lord, it's on my mind every. single. waking. moment. I even dream about it fercryinoutloud. That and sex. Lots and lots of sex. Pregnant sex too. With Robbie Williams. wtf?

So. Period. This is where things pick up again and there are procedures to be booked and appointments to be made. Things have fallen into place quite nicely an next Monday brings with it a hysterosalpinogram, followed by an appointment with Dr Alf shorty afterwards.

I simply can't wait to have dye shot up my furby.

Which reminds me: while talking to (arguing with, whatever) mum the other day, the subject of DES came up.

Okay, okay, I forced the issue.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before, but mum thinks she was given DES when she was pregant with me. I'm sure I've mentioned I think mum is a nut and anything for attention, yo. Anyway, I pinned her down because frankly, her arguments do NOT hold water.

Let's look at the things we do know:
She doesn't remember the name of the drug.
The doctor's records have been destroyed.
She doesn't remember the name of her doctor.
Oh wait, she doesn't remember the name of her doctor yet she knows his records have been destroyed? *scratches head*
She remembers the name of a drug she was given many years later, which was, wait for it, Diethylstilbestrol, or, DES.
She remembers that whatever in fuck she was given while gestating yours truly, she reacted differently to it than she reacted the subsequent doses of DES she received in 1968 and 1972 respectively.

While the notoriety of being a DES daughter would afford me some serious sympathy and several 'aw, you poor thing's, I don't believe I am one. A poor thing or a DES daughter.

And, uh, if today's entry had a point, I forgot what it was.

Which reminds me! I bought a new caffetiera! And it makes superb coffee! And I've had four already!!! And that would explain the exclamation marks!!