I know that it isn’t over until the fat lady sings, but my temperature has taken an ominous dive this morning. Fat lady, your cue….
Sigh.
I had been hiding, deep down, dreams of being able to tell people that I was pregnant. Again. Already. In my fantasy world, it was going to be the most wonderful cure all for PBWCLEW. Of course it was going to go perfectly smoothly for 40 weeks, followed by the easiest delivery and most lovable baby that ever did scream all night.
I knew that Hope* was seductive, but come on. As the saying goes, it takes two to tango, so the fault is at least partially mine for the optimistic indiscretion I made.
God I’m daft. And not pregnant. AND unlikely to be any time soon.
Now I’d just like to get the hemorrhaging over with so I can delude myself for another six to eight weeks that it could be “the” cycle.
* I’d like to clarify that by “Hope” I mean the emotion, and most emphatically NOT the big-lipped, amazingly-pneumatically-racked soapie character. She freaks me right out.
