Double your fun.

In honour of Tracy’s rather valid point that perhaps I should badmouth my womb less if I expect it to co-operate with me by gestating, I will say nothing further on the matter. Until after the beta, anyay. As the adage goes, if you can’t say anything nice, it is best not to say anything at all.

I’ll just have to find something else to bitch about for the next fortnight. Did I mention that I’ve had my transfer?

Oh goody, because the TWW does not make me the least bit histrionic OR neurotic.

The transfer went fairly well, all things considered. This time around I noticed a few details that I missed the first time, namely:

• An awful lot of lube seems to go on the speculum. Enough to require serious application of tissues to the fun-zone before leaving the clinic, lest I leak enough to stain chairs with KY’s finest all afternoon.

Never mind the whispered ‘You’ve got this STAIN on your bum’ comments that would inevitably occur.

I’d really quite enjoy happily pronouncing ‘Oh, that? It’s just lube. I believe it washes out quite well’. But in the spirit of civic duty, I don’t enjoy leaving goopy marks on chairs that other bums would occupy. It just seems unsanitary.

• The sterile drapes used to help render the external hoo-haa area a little less germy have a rather neat round hole cut out in the middle. Right where the business end of the instrument of your choice is to be inserted (penis, speculum, the rather too curious staring eyeballs from a nosy embryologist, you know, whatever. Feel free to check out the vagina of the woman in stirrups, ladies and gents, I won’t mind in the least).

I really have no idea why I did not notice the, for want of a better description, G.lory Hole during the first transfer. How on earth did I think they transported embryo(s) to my cervix through a damn sheet?

This observation above also prompted some rather inappropriate internal dialogue about IVF and the role of the G.lory Hole (please don’t Google that term at work) within it. It would have been external dialogue but for the fact that I didn’t want to teach the children (I’m trying to be positive) smut before they were even in-utero and I think my RE may have found the observation rather, well, coarse.

True to form, I have no idea what the embryos even looked like because I was busy thinking about porno-IVF when they went up on the monitor.

Deary me. Google THAT users-of-dirty-search-terms, I dare you.

I do recall that they were pronounced ‘thawed’ and ‘continuing to divide’ and that there was TWO, leaving eight in the deep-freeze. I think one had a few more cells than the other, but whatever. I don’t care about high achievers, I’d be quite happy for the slacker to succeed if I actually get a honest-to-goodness BABY out of the experience.

All of this TWO/SURVIVED/DIVIDE talk sounded basically like it was heading in general direction of ?baby? and therefore absolutely fine with me. It’s not like I can do much about whether they’re actually ‘X’ cells or ‘Y’ cells or dividing ‘fast’ or ’slow’ other than Google myself into a frenzy, so perhaps ignorance is bliss after all.

On the way home, it occurred to me that if this works (are you listening, universe?) my husband will have successfully knocked me up without having even been in the room. Talented, huh?

Finally the train broke down and a crazy man retaliated by barking at me, whilst simultaneously dribbling snot and saliva down his face. I snapped out of it and paid more serious attention to getting home in one piece from that point.