Fuck you Offspring, fuck you. I don’t mean my actual offspring, I mean that fucking TV programme where I end up in fucking tears every fucking week watching the gorgeous Nina deliver another slimy, screaming baby while my ovaries threaten to burst with cluckiness. Like now, glass of wine in hand, tears streaming, bewildered cats looking at me like I’ve totally lost my shit.
Yes, glass of wine in hand. A couple of weeks ago I ordered a case of it and booked a botox appointment within a seven minute window. It may have been a bit of a knee jerk reaction after I had the phone call. Not just A phone call but THE phone call. The one where the nice nurse calls and says lots of nice conciliatory things about the fact that she was holding blood test results to confirm I was definitely not pregnant. A fact I was already 99.99% certain of based on the indications of the five negative home pregnancy tests I’d already taken. Arse, bollocks, tits, fuckity fuck fuck, motherfucker, etc. In short, it was a bit of a bummer, and so I took solace in vino and vanity. Because I bloody well can.
The husband and I had many very adulty, pragmatic ’what if’ conversations before this point, we’d agreed wholeheartedly in a very mature fashion that if our lucky last embryo wasn’t actually all that lucky then we’d just count our two chubby, perfect little blessings and leave it at that. No more IVF, no more trying to make something happen that just doesn’t seem like it’s meant to be. Except I’m a woman, and as a woman it’s my prerogative to change my fickle female mind, which I may have done. Maybe. Or not.
Even though three kids was always the optimistic plan, now that pregnancy is no longer an imminent prospect I have to admit I’m actually quite enjoying the freedoms that affords me (refer to aforementioned booze and beautification). But while I revel in having ownership of my body for the first time in years there’s also part of me worried that maybe I’m going to find I enjoy all the selfishness a bit much to go back to the start with another one.
As the crying over newborns whilst knocking back plonk might suggest, I’m a wee bit conflicted, and by that I mean I really don’t know what the fuck I want. On one hand I’m basking in the uncluttered bench space where the bottle steriliser and drying rack used to be (hallelujah, praise be, crap be gone!), but on the other I turn into a weepy puddle sorting through baby clothes and relegating all the ridiculously teeny tiny decommissioned baby articles into storage until I can actually bring myself to part with them. If I knew for sure I was ‘done’ then surely I’d be able to let them go more easily? Or do all mothers feel that wrench with putting the lid on that phase of life, even if they know for absolute certain they’re more done than a dinner with the whole baby business?
The thing is, it was very easy to say definitely, certainly, absolutely no more IVF when I was also definitely pretty certain that I’d absolutely get pregnant from one of the two embryos we had on ice. When that turned out not to be the case I suddenly reserved the right to be a bit less certain and reconsider that call. But getting back on that roundabout doesn’t guarantee a baby, a good chance yes, but there’s no certainty. We could go through all that drama (mostly related to me being a hormonal crackpot) for nothing except a bit of heartache. I know that might sound like a very cynical way of thinking but life right now with our little family is actually really good and as wonderful as another babe would be, I just don’t know if I want to mess with it (and my head) for something that might not happen.
So the one thing I have decided on is a time out from mission maybe-baby. A few months to drink the wine and eat the food and get the vanity injections (I said no more IVF, not no more needles because if I can’t be pregnant, dammit I’m going to buy me some pretty) and just chill the fuck out not furrowing my freshly paralysed brow in thought about it all. And I believe that is what they call the downtime, the me time, the not overthinking, overanalysing, self-tormenting time. And if after that there’s still a crying, pooping, spewing, sleep stealing, baby shaped hole in my life (and uterus) then maybe we’ll revisit that whole no more IVF thing after all…
Meanwhile, this beautiful little babe is the only thing I’m going to nursing for now.