I’ve written an awful lot of rubbish here.
Don’t get me wrong, it has its merits, it tells the story, keeps my brain ticking over, and is often fun to craft, and full of release, but essentially it’s the same handful of entries repeated.
Twenty eight times I’ve told the same thing over and over, with a few self-abuse tales or outings to the clinic thrown in for some variation.
The same thing happens every month, and I write the same thing every month.
With every cycle that passed, I wrote another kind of entry. Entries that never made it on-line, most of which never made to black and white at all. These were my imagined posts describing how that cycle would be a success, how we’d finally done it.
There were good ones among them too, some funny, some poignant. Some that rushed one way before suddenly hurtling back in the opposite direction, a roller coaster of reveal, breathtaking and stomach dropping, and leaving us all panting and drenched in the eventual wonderful news.
Some borrowed great words from others, bloggers, musicians, poets. Quotations that took sledge hammers to the glass cases housing the emotions I could only imagine I would feel but couldn’t come within a country mile of expressing accurately.
Each time I came up with one, it seemed perfect. Each time it was irrelevant.
My last one was my favourite, pretentious and failingly poetic, filled with daydream imagery and mention of fireflies and lots of other things I really should stay clear of, but it genuinely felt right and I was convinced I would use it.
Now it doesn’t seem right. None of the twenty odd variations do. None of them come even close to pushing my stomach up into my chest, stealing half breaths from me, and making me stand taller, but shake just a little in disbelief and excitement like the following half dozen words do.
I’m going to be a dad.