Ding Ding

Two ovaries in swimsuits are circling the boxing ring, holding up two boards with the number 17 on them.

Round 17. Cycle 17.

What can we say about this one that hasn't been said before?
Er...not a whole lot.

This cycle is going to be 'monitored'. Which as far as I can understand is the second clinic's fancy way of saying they'll run some tests that have already been run by the first clinic.

Tomorrow, Friday, on cycle day 10, ET will have an ultrasound.
I presume this will be to check follicle development in anticipation of ovulation.

Whether she likes it or not, I'm going to be there, camera in hand.

This has already been done by the first clinic and everything was in ship shape.

11 days later on CD21, ET will have bloods checked, especially for progesterone levels, to check that the result of ovulation are high levels of the hormone.
This has also been checked by the first clinic, and is also in ship shape.

Somewhere in between having her innards gawked at, and having the blood sucked out of her, she'll have the ever joyous experience of my manhood attempting to perform it's own form of internal examination on her.

So while I grunt and pant and drool my way to ecstasy, she gets to horizontally mentally plan her next purchase from Amazon.

In a nutshell, this cycle is like a sandwich for ET, the poor old bird, stale tests early on and near the end, but with lashings of stuffing in the middle.

What more could a girl want from a month?

Now, I want a clean fight, no holding, no grabbing, nothing below the belt. At the bell, come out fighting.

Round 17. Ding Ding.

The end is nigh

Dear Mr. World Health Organisation man person,

I've got some news for you. The planet is going to spin off of its own axis and plummet through space forever until it collides with something bigger and uglier than us and kills us all.

Why so?! I hear you cry in horror...

Babies.

Babies everywhere. Multiplying at rates invisible to the human eye.

I've been trotting around various cities in this part of the world over the past week with my visitors, Antwerp, Rotterdam, and the Hague and you couldn't swing a cat for fear of hitting a newborn smack in the chops.

Either 86% of the world's population is currently pregnant or there is a serious run on shoplifting bowling balls among the female species.

We even went to Amsterdam last weekend, for gay pride, you would think a poor infertile would find some peace there, but nooooooo. Bloody babies n'bellies as far as the eye could see.

In fact, at this rate of multiplication, I calculate that the world's resources should expire sometime later this week.

Now, let me take a minute to gash my wrists and grab the salt shaker. I've insanely and inanely rambled on before about how I believe we are being mocked by nature. Well, these little froggy horny green bastards were not satisfied in deafening us with their incessant copulation and production of masses of frog spawn, but now it seems that they are playing happy families too.

We are overrun by hundreds of baby frogs.

My warning to the mammy and daddy frogs? keep them out of my sight, or those feeble frogs could fall fowl to my crumbling grasp of reality.

I'm just days away from strapping a couple into a stroller with a couple of bonnets on their heads and taking them to the playground.

"Hi everyone, meet Kermit and Kermitta"

From the bunker

I'm hidden away, in the depths of secrecy, away from our visitors.

I'm posting this via morse code, so forgive me if it comes out wrong.

As it happens, the codes for 'Oh! what a lovely day we are having' and 'I want to smash my own face into this conveniently placed wall' are quite similar.

Similarly thin is the situation's reality which seems to also be one or the other, depending on which side of my cranial cavity you have access to.

We are over half way through the visit.

No embarrassing discoveries and no awkward questions - yet.

It seems though, that it is definitely baby harvest season. Everywhere I turn, there is another one riding shoulders, or waddling it's nappy padded arse alongside, or just generally oozing cuteness from itself and fucking gut turning jealousy from me.

Writing this is like successfully finding that vein, pushing the plunger, and having a rush of relief serum pump through my bloodstream.

Until Wednesday, when I think I will be able to stop holding my breath again, it brings a slight reprieve.

Shhh...I hear footsteps...

I managed to check back on the comments left to the last entry a few times over the last few days and the response was spectacular and flattering. Thank you all for your kind words.