You Fake Mother Fucker

You Fake Mother Fucker

I have nausea something fierce.

I have indigestion.

I have HUGE sore boobs.

I have smell-o-vision.

I went to dinner last night (a real GROWN up dinner with real GROWN up conversation!) and could barely eat because I was so queasy. I took a sip of wine  (after a toast. I had to!) and it instantly gave me heart burn.

I’ve been pregnant before. Several times. And these are all the same symptoms.

Yet?

I still have a white as the driven snow spot where I should have that second line. I’m tempted to show up and make them give me my beta so I can end the Fake Fucking Morning Sickness and the “maybe the test (The two batches of tests. From two different stores. It could [never] happen!)was wrong” that’s floating around in my head.

Beta tomorrow and then a thankful release from this progesterone hell.  Time to start healing and losing some of this mother fucking IVF weight.

Fucker.

Also, this blog is about to take a sharp left turn. If you are one of the peoples that read for the infertility posts, you might want to pack up our RSS reader and move on. If you are one of the ones that stop by for the naughtiness… fasten your seat belts.

*sigh* Man I hope I mean that. I started this blog to talk about Naughty.  It’s just that the timing was all wrong and I ended up blathering on about wanting a behbeh, when I have a perfectly good (amazing actually) behbeh already.

Also? I’m a gonna start writing about him more. I have held back because I know a lot of my readers are not as lucky as me and have no behbehs, but the time for that is over. Now you must all hear about our non-consensual session time here at home. (Former) Internationally Renowned Dominatrix skooled by Taunting Toddler.

There will also be a lot more use of the word, “fucker.”

You have been warned.

I love and adore all the amazing, strong women out there who have been my support group and virtual cheering squad. I wish you all, as someone amazing recently wished me, bellies full of babies. I will still check in on your progress, but, perhaps, not as often. It’s part of the healing process. I need to move on.