Wednesday, August 22, 2007

in which there where little pictures

Remember this? Well, yes. Chocks away.

The first appointment with the Reproductive Endocrinologist was two weeks ago, and I've had one of the mandatory two sessions with the social worker with the next scheduled for next Tuesday. Now all I've got to do is get my Day 21 bloods which, if anyone's interested, isn't strictly Day 21. Essentially what you do is wait to ovulate and then count seven days and then get your bloods done. The "Day 21" tag refers to a regular 28 day cycle, with progesterone levels being at a peak on Day 21, which is seven days after ovulating which, in a 28 day cycle, usually occurs on day 14. Capiche? ANYWAY, yes. Once the Day 21 (or whatever) bloods are done, I wait some more, and then when my period arrives (which becomes Day 1 of your cycle, for those of you using this entry for educational purposes), schedule a scan for day 3, 4 or 5 to check my ovaries for follicles, I don't know why, and on the same day, get more bloods done to get a baseline hormone panel. Or something. I seem to recollect soemthing about that, but honestly? I may have made that last bit up. Then I wait a bit longer and see the RE again mid September, by which time I should have ovulated at least once, my period should have been and gone (all seven days of it what the fuck?), and he'll have all the necessary results.

All of these immediate things are dependent on my stupid body doing what it should know how to do but has in the past had oh so much trouble getting a handle on. The good news though, is that it's been doing quite nicely, thankyou very much, since I got my period back in February this year. Obviously it's a first for me because I have never had so regular a period and if I have ovulated (apart from Daniel's original twinkle in my eye popping out right on schedule like it did) in the past, it never knew about it. Now? I practically receive a notarised letter from the Queen each time an egg goes traipsing out of my ovary, all tizzied up and ready to part-ay. This month though, has been a right off. OF COURSE. Everything has gone awry and I've either given up ovulating all together or have super ovulated seventeen times before lunch. Obviously I'm being hypervigilant so am missing what are in truth, fairly subtle signs anyway, and obviously it's driving me crazy, so I'm just going to get my damn blood taken on Friday and lie like a rug about how certain I am that the egg was popped a week ago. The most important part of the equation though, My Period, I can't fake and god help my uterus if it fucks with me and my need to get this particular ball rolling. Which is funny, ha ha, given that the next step after all this bizzo is...wait for it...sperm donor selection! (a tenuous segue, yes, but there, nonetheless)


I can't believe it's taken this long to find the time to sit down and write an entry either, but there it is. Daniel's even been in childcare on Monday and Tuesday, and is going in again today, giving me a theoretical fuckload of down time -and yet my list of achievements for the week equals a big, fat zero.

Although, I have updated you all on my parts, and.....

I have had a chance to get my nails done, grazie dio! Which also explains the deebs' extra day this week in care. I'd called the girl on Friday and left a message begging her to save me from life as a two bit crack whore, dodgy nails being the main determinant of such things, and my nails were awful. Several of them were quite literally being held together by superglue. GASP. Anyway, lesson learned: BioSculpture Gel nails look freakin' awesome but require more upkeep than your traditional acrylics, and just one extra week between being gelled and being maintained had my nails being a little worse for wear. Acrylics are stronger too and you know where this is heading, don't you? But I'm getting ahead of myself. This isn't a very interesting story, by the way. Not at all. Quite boring actually, a la "then I did this and then I did that and bla and bla and bla". I don't know why I'm even writing about it. BUT, the lass called back Monday morning all "can you come in today at 1.30?" and I took one look at Daniel, who is home on Mondays, and figured he'd do fine locked in the car for a few hours with a sippy cup of milk for hydration purposes and a few rusks to keep him from starving, so said yes. KIDDING. First, I sobbed and told her no, not possible. Then the lightbulb came on and I called the childcare centre who said sure, they'd had a cancellation for that day, bring him in, so I did, and then I spent about a billion dollars getting the gel nails removed because criminy, (also, "quick and easy removal"? Ha ha HA), I must do a bit of bricklaying in my sleep or something, judging by how much my nails went south in the past three weeks, and then had an acrylic overlay put on which I don't like as much as the gels, not at all, because while the gels looked like "hmm, are her nails real or not?", these scream "fake, fake fake, fake!" as much as Jordan's gigantic ta-tas do. But, now I can keep them long for a while without spending a fortune and half my life in the nail salon. Or, at least I will until my professional ethics kick in again, or clients get sick of me leaving scratch marks all over their bodies that they need to go home and explain to their wives, husbands, partners, or pet budgerigars. I think if your nails are stronger to begin with the gels would last better as they only strengthen what you already have, and my natural nails break all. the. damn. time anyway, so still bend and flex and challenge the gel's super strengthening powers at the same places they break, so then the gel, without maintenance, gets weaker at those same points and god I can make even the most interesting story an exercise in Le Yawn.

Herewith the nails :

old nails (attached to hands older than Methesulah)

new nails (and gratuitous baby photo)

Hmm, I've really got to learn how to use my camera properly. Rough translation: you're not drunk, it's fuzzy in the foreground.

Speaking of short folk who poop their pants (no, not Daniel's father)(, He's another story entirely that probably requires popcorn and the number of a hitman on speed dial), life as I knew it is now over. As I type, Daniel is standing on a milk crate and fosscking in the last remining drawer in the kitchen that I could call my own. I have no drawers! Which, hang on. That doesn't sound right.

Point being, dude is killing me here. It started the other night when all was silent and I found him mounted on the drawers he'd pulled out to form makeshift stairs (seriously) and had climbed up on top using his trusty milk crate as leverage.

LOOK AT HIM! Eternal eek, man. My god, I gave birth to a min Sir Edmin Hillary. Doomed, I am doomed. And committed to leaving a truck load of cardboard boxes lying around, stunt man style, to catch any potential falls and hopefully cushion against all those potentially broken bones. DOOMED.

The cardboard boxes shouldn't be hard to find as I have a guilty secret: I hoard cardboard boxeas. You know, in case I need them one day. Which I NEVER HAVE so there's the real reason why I need ot move out of this pokey unit and into a Mansion with fourteen bedrooms, or, as I see it, Two bedrooms and a dozen cardboard box storage spaces. I need an intervention.

As update from the News You Didn't Need To Hear files: we have a High Alert, Code Brown situation here at the Villa de Bee. IfyouknowwhatImean (hint: peeyoo)

In other riveting toddler news, Daniel is learning to dress himself. Behold:

He also reads. Or does something that looks like reading, at least. I think I've mentioned it before but ever since he's been picking up books, if you give him a book with no pictures and only words in it, upside down and back to front, the dude's been turning it the right way around so he can begin thumbing through the pages. Freak-ay.

2005-2007© aibee