Wednesday sees the arrival of some of my family, for a week. At the same time we are half expecting Aunt Flo, but it doesn't need to be said that we would prefer if she stayed away.
We have quite a task ahead of us in preparation though, 'hiding the body'.
Okay, not an 'actual' body but a body of evidence. Evidence of trying to conceive.
Over the past months our house has become ground zero for this fornication powered project, with debris all over the place.
Doctor's letters, referral letters, appointment cards, eight copies of every single test result we've had, litter the dining table, every drawer, and the office.
Bottles containing ET's folic acid and vitamin B supplements, along with my beta carotene, vitamins C & E, and zinc, adorn shelves and windowsills all around the house.
Literature is everywhere! Bloody peeking back at me from shelves are booklets from the hospital on their wonderful (albeit utterly unattainable) treatments, books on trying to conceive, and a bastard book of baby names that I couldn't be more sorry I bought.
Not to mention the bulk online purchases of pregnancy and ovulation prediction kits.
Then there is of course the other stuff like the fertility doll and yellow booties.
All that is even before I noticed all the electronic evidence on our two laptops and the PC, which positively bursting at the seams with bookmarked pages overflowing with trying to conceive and infertility information.
With all this shit lying around, this place is starting to look like the big brother house where the house mates are a prostitute, a porn star, a witch doctor, a gynecologist and a hippy tree hugging drug pusher.
If I had any common sense I would carefully store away all documentation, make the pills invisible yet accessible, and protect all bookmarks.
The reality will most likely lead to one of my poor sisters being crushed to death under an avalanche of trying to conceive paraphernalia upon opening some attic cupboard door.
Such will be the landslide, the cause of death will remain a mystery, fertility doll to the jugular perhaps?, loss of blood from multi-million paper cuts maybe?, stoned to death by a storm of vitamin tablets perchance?
Whatever it is, I have a hunch it would be that bastard baby names book that would strike the final, and fatal, blow.