After a late night last night (dinner at a noodle bar and Volver (quite good, not Almodovar's best but Penelope Cruz is outstanding and oh my goodness I just saw that she's only 32, damn her) with my brother), I woke up later than planned this morning. I wanted to make muffins before going to the 9am scan. I woke up at 8 and bizarrely decided to bake anyway, including doubling the recipe, which then made the prep period longer by needing to chop extra ginger. This meant that I'd only just put them in the oven at 0855. Of course I'd intended to take muffins to the clinic, having had a fabulous response to taking them cookies on Tuesday, but they simply weren't close to being ready so I thought that I'd rather be on time sans muffins, than half an hour late with them.
I therefore had to go off to the scan without H, who was given instructions about how to test for muffin done-ness - he doesn't bake, he cooks, so this was quite a bit responsibility. He also felt bad about not coming with me, and, I think, just a tad nervous as the pattern in our relationship is that he drives and I sit in the passenger seat, so I'm not sure he's that keen on letting me loose on his gearbox. But actually, despite not having driven for ages, I felt fine with it, and realised that I'm a total hypocrite as I usually give H a hard time for driving too fast, when actually I'm just as bad once I'm behind the wheel, if somewhat less aggressive about other drivers.
The shoes today were a very smart pair of black stilettos, again around 4 inches high. Although they weren't red, they were so high that I felt I had to comment. (And Kristin, she was wearing some very skinny jeans which surely mean she's lost the pregnancy weight. She's pretty bloody skinny...). I complimented her on her ability to be present on a Sunday morning in high heels, and she said: "Well, it's certainly an art learning to balance on them". Which didn't really give me any insight but at least it was a form of conversation about the shoes. If she's wearing the red ones again on Tuesday for retrieval, I'll ask her about them then. Because yes, we are on for Tuesday.
- On the right: 23, 17, 17, 17, 15, 14, 12 (plus about 3 around 8)
- On the left: 24, 21, 20, 18, 17, 14, 13 (plus about 2 around 8)
- Lining: 11.7
That makes nine possible (over 17mm) and and other three maybes (the 15 and 14s). So the Ovitrelle injection is at 22:30 tonight. If we ever have to do it again, remind me oh please remind me that I stim slowly but do seem to get there in the end.
When I got back around 0930, the muffins were out. Sadly some of them were a trifle singed at the edges, but H doesn't mind burnt bits. They are good, but I'd already cut the sugar somewhat and these were still way too sweet, so if you do make them, I'd suggest using no more than 2/3rds of the sugar suggested in the recipe. The ginger is what makes them delicious, so don't skip that. Or perhaps I had a challenge in translating from cups to grams (although I used Stephanie Alexander who is usually quite reliable). Why do Americans cook in cups? It's so bloody inaccurate for baking - how do I know how hard you tamped down the sugar or flour? And why measure a cup of butter unless it's melted? You are strange people indeed. I'm convinced that baking is my child substitute. I have the whole Jewish food=love thing (oh how I need to cure myself of this before inflicting it on any potential future daughters) plus baking is just so nurturing somehow. Perhaps I could segue the feeling of nurturing into the garden? Somehow it's not quite so satisfying.
I remain quite optimistic about this cycle. I know there is no real rhyme nor reason for this, it's based on the entirely unscientific fact that we got pregnant last time (and perhaps even had some implantation the first time, who knows, with that beta of five two days after I'd started bleeding). I've found myself planning for what happens with scans etc after a positive pregnancy test, telling people I don't want to fly too much in one potentially busy week at the end of September when I'd be one week post pregnancy test, thinking of how we'll feel on our fourth anniversary of meeting, on 27 September, if I'm pregnant at that point. I keep telling myself not to count my chickens, but idle dreaming leads me back to the optimistic space. I think I'm just going to have to live with it, it's not going away, and I'm not sure being pessimistic really offers that much protection against the misery of a negative in the end. Let's see how I feel (assuming we have two to put back, which is still not a definite) in those few days before the pregnancy test where, honestly, last time I KNEW I was pregnant, much as I wasn't admitting it. Those cramps and pullings I was feeling felt so different than anything I'd felt before.
Clearly, several weeks of madness are ahead of us, either way. To edify ourselves we are about to head off to see this exhibition, and have decided to take the river boat to get there since it's such a nice autumn day. I do like weekends.