And then you die….
Caution: Baby On Brain
I am starting to obsess a little. I constantly wonder if the pills are working. Will it happen this time? I google symptoms and statistics and success stories all day.
I want this so bad. My entire life has led up to this. All I ever wanted was to be a wife & mother. I just assumed that that was the way that the world turned, that was the norm in Mayberry, that was what good girls did, and that was what I wanted.
At six years old, I had my life planned out. I just knew that I would marry G.I. Joe, or Luke Duke, I was keeping my options open there. We would have 3 kids, a dog, and a house with a front porch. As I got older, the face on the top of the cake changed but not the accessories.
But it never happened. I kept my chin up and kept up the act that I was not worried. But I was. Even while pretending not to be, I was leading up to my goal.
My degree is in education so that I could work a similar schedule to my children. It would never matter where I lived as my children would have the option of attending where I taught.
I bought the house myself, the dog myself, thinking that I could nudge Barbie’s dreamhouse along a little bit.
And it still hasn’t happened yet.
You Only Want Me For My Body….
No, I only want the sperm.
TTC is making me a hormonal wreck, and apparently, making Monkey Butt sleepy. Obviously, performing on command is wearing him out as he’s passed out before 8am every night this week.
Most of you have heard me complain about this medicine that I’m on. It’s made me really really emotional. This weekend, Iwent on a crying spree. It’s driving me nutty because I am not a “crybaby” type. I’m a screamer! 
Make my sister mad, she’ll squall. Make me mad, I’m gonna scream at you.
Saturday, I can think of at least 5 different crying jags. I cried because he was playing with my hair and accidentally pulled one strand that snagged on his wedding band. I cried because he jokingly said that he was gonna hold out on me all week. Joke or not, that upset me so much. I have endured the crazy emotions, all this crying, the headaches, backaches, nausea, and stomach problems and he says he’s not gonna do his part? And he gets the “fun” part. All he has to do is sacrifice any foreplay involving spit and/or lube.
Sunday, I squalled for 30 minutes because I cut my finger doing the dishes and I don’t know what happened. I screamed. The sight of my own blood terrifies me and I often faint at the sight of it (just my own, i’m cool with yours) so I sat down in the floor rather than fall down. Monkey Butt asked what was wrong from the other room. The fact that he didn’t come running when I screamed the girly scream hurt my feelings for some stupid reason. Then he fussed cause I was in the floor, he fussed because I had the knives blade-end-up in the dishwasher, he fussed b/c I was slow getting up out of the floor, he fussed when I said I was dizzy, he fussed when I started crying. So in turn, I cried because he washed the blood off and it stung. I cried because he put too much neosporin. I cried because he pressed the bandaid too hard. I cried because he said I needed to “man up” and be tough. I’m losing my mind. Everything is getting to me. Maybe the swimmers will too.
P.S. On the first night of official chem-TTC nookie, Monkey Butt leans down over my belly. I thought awwww, he’s gonna kiss my belly. Nope, he puts his mouth to my belly button and yells “Forward, MARCH!”
