Back online now so phew.
During my 'deceive to conceive' plotting I found it necessary to research the lifespan of a sperm.
But in doing so I stumbled onto an alarming message board. A teenager in the States wanted to know whether her “sister” could be pregnant. She’d broken up with her boyfriend, retrieved a four-day-old condom from the bin and emptied its contents into her vagina.
There were several answers. ‘T’ said not to worry, as soon as sperm hits the air it dies. Another put ‘T’ right saying sperm can live for up to two hours but not four days in the rubbish bin. ‘T’ posted again thanking the corrector for correcting. Then another post said she didn’t have to worry that her “sister” was pregnant but should maybe get her some psychiatric help.
The information I was after was on a different website. Its language suggested authority – a doctor maybe. It said as long as sperm is wet it is alive.
I’m sorry for the detail but this is a record of my attempt to beat the clock. As such it may necessitate the logging of unsavoury aspects that are crucial in helping me expand my family.
Thursday, 29 March 2007
Thursday, 22 March 2007
Tongue & groove
I've been without the internet for a fortnight now and am going slightly mad. Am now in the weird internet shop near the station. It's a tatty old room full of ancient machines and weirdos hunched over their screens in the corner. Probably net porn addicts. Can't write for long but feel the need to feed.
I am decorating the flat in Stoke Newington to rent out again. Back breaking stuff and all my bones ache. A tiny tongue and groove ceiling is so deceptive. I'm still not finished three days after squeezing the lid off the paint pot. At least today I remembered to pack the radio.
Yesterday we took the Prince's mother, the Queen, on the London Eye. Perfect weather for it. The city looked like a miniature village with tiny trains and buses. The Prince pointed out the roof of his rightful home at Number 10 while the Queen gazed longingly at Buckingham Palace rising up in the misty distance. The trip was good for Rosie as she's been drawing the London skyline at playschool.
Guilt issues going on with Rosie's pizza party on Sunday. Didn't want to invite the whole class but she's talked about it non-stop and now I've invited people out of guilt and the bill's going to be huge.
I am decorating the flat in Stoke Newington to rent out again. Back breaking stuff and all my bones ache. A tiny tongue and groove ceiling is so deceptive. I'm still not finished three days after squeezing the lid off the paint pot. At least today I remembered to pack the radio.
Yesterday we took the Prince's mother, the Queen, on the London Eye. Perfect weather for it. The city looked like a miniature village with tiny trains and buses. The Prince pointed out the roof of his rightful home at Number 10 while the Queen gazed longingly at Buckingham Palace rising up in the misty distance. The trip was good for Rosie as she's been drawing the London skyline at playschool.
Guilt issues going on with Rosie's pizza party on Sunday. Didn't want to invite the whole class but she's talked about it non-stop and now I've invited people out of guilt and the bill's going to be huge.
Tuesday, 13 March 2007
Plasma pain
Not offline yet. And not a millionairess either. The Prince was going crazy over the mysterious email from Camelot. His computer had saved my National Lotto details and he discovered I'd only won a tenner.
Got to look on the bright side though, that’s paid for the last two months’ subscriptions.
The sun has come out in London and people are smiling again. The Prince and I aren’t working today. He’s happy because he’s bought a 37 inch plasma television.
For a man who three years ago thought nothing of paying a builder £35 to hang a picture, he now uses a drill on a regular basis after I showed him how. However, he still has a habit of breaking them mid use.
Last night, after mastering the Japanese instructions to mount the tilting bracket to hold the plasma on the wall, he broke the second drill in as many months. Thank God he did though as it was terribly late, Rosie had woken up and the house was juddering so much I thought it would cause subsidence.
The plasma’s been a pain. On Saturday he bought a 32 inch one from a place in London Bridge that says it’s the cheapest anywhere. When he got it home he discovered he could have saved £100 by buying on the internet. So yesterday we squashed into the tiny car and drove back there to return it.
The Prince became a blithering idiot. He didn’t know which one to get – the one with speakers at the back and a better picture, or the bigger one with good picture and good sound.
“How about the latter in the smaller size?” I suggested.
“It doesn’t exist,” he said.
“How about this?” I said. “I’ll agree to the super-dooper one if you agree to a second baby?”
He said “no” – just like that. I still agreed to the big one.
I'm always compromising. It feels he never does. About a year ago the Prince spotted a revolting red leather cinema suite in DFS. It was a sofa made up of three reclining armchairs in a row with silver beer holders in between each one. He said at the time “you agree to this, I’ll give you another baby.” I agreed of course but then his grandmother gave us an L-shaped sofa instead and the second baby pledge was promptly forgotton.
Hey ho.
Got to look on the bright side though, that’s paid for the last two months’ subscriptions.
The sun has come out in London and people are smiling again. The Prince and I aren’t working today. He’s happy because he’s bought a 37 inch plasma television.
For a man who three years ago thought nothing of paying a builder £35 to hang a picture, he now uses a drill on a regular basis after I showed him how. However, he still has a habit of breaking them mid use.
Last night, after mastering the Japanese instructions to mount the tilting bracket to hold the plasma on the wall, he broke the second drill in as many months. Thank God he did though as it was terribly late, Rosie had woken up and the house was juddering so much I thought it would cause subsidence.
The plasma’s been a pain. On Saturday he bought a 32 inch one from a place in London Bridge that says it’s the cheapest anywhere. When he got it home he discovered he could have saved £100 by buying on the internet. So yesterday we squashed into the tiny car and drove back there to return it.
The Prince became a blithering idiot. He didn’t know which one to get – the one with speakers at the back and a better picture, or the bigger one with good picture and good sound.
“How about the latter in the smaller size?” I suggested.
“It doesn’t exist,” he said.
“How about this?” I said. “I’ll agree to the super-dooper one if you agree to a second baby?”
He said “no” – just like that. I still agreed to the big one.
I'm always compromising. It feels he never does. About a year ago the Prince spotted a revolting red leather cinema suite in DFS. It was a sofa made up of three reclining armchairs in a row with silver beer holders in between each one. He said at the time “you agree to this, I’ll give you another baby.” I agreed of course but then his grandmother gave us an L-shaped sofa instead and the second baby pledge was promptly forgotton.
Hey ho.
Sunday, 11 March 2007
Millionairess, moi?
It’s been chaos in my street recently. Everyone seems to have gone mad.
Last night I experienced a new neighbourhood nuisance; a family of Eastern Europeans (couldn’t quite make out the accent) who thoughtfully chose to hold an hour long conflab with their friend, a middle-aged, beer-gutted tattooed skinhead in their front garden at 2.30 am.
After busily busy-bodying around in the dark to gauge the situation I decided not to venture out in my dressing gown. It’s all well and good asking the household two houses to the right to stop their all-night fireworks at 4am, but skinheads with tattooed arms and beer guts?
Instead, I put the light on and pulled my curtain back. The woman of the house clocked me.
“Good,” I thought. “Just a matter of seconds now.”
Instead she took a long drag on her fag and carried on yacking. I threw the curtains back in disgust, put earplugs in and tried VERY HARD not to be angry. I then re-read the same sentence in my book for half an hour while trying to ignore the noise.
I got a bit cross with the world and crap people like that. Yob like elements who Daily Mail hacks write about to pay their mortgages. Then guilt pangs kicked in and I figured maybe they'd had terrible lives... then fury again as I realised I’m probably paying for them to live there.
Just as I'd fallen back to sleep again, a car came screeching to a halt outside our house. The Prince slept on. It was now 4am. I thought I was about to witness a shooting. Two men were having an argument on the pavement. One had left his car parked in the middle of the road and turned the lights off. That got me worrying another car might come round the bend and smash into it. The argument lasted about 20 minutes during which no gunshot sounded. Urban living pitfalls. At least there are no cars on fire like around the corner.
How I yearn for the Surrey heartlands with lush greenery and birdsong. Oh to be disturbed by little furrowing foxes or squirrels foraging for nuts.
Tomorrow I lose internet access for a whole week while I switch provider. Not sure how I'll cope without my secret e-friend to write to.
The worst bit is I could be rich! I received an email from Camelot saying "we have good news about your lottery ticket" (I do the weekly draw via direct debit). I logged on but couldn't remember my username and password. I had to fill in a form on their website and am now waiting for my new temporary sign in details to be emailed. It's been two hours now and still nothing and tomorrow I go offline. The Prince has gone a bit nuts - he's cash obsessed.
I might actually be a millionairess right now but not know it. If I am I'll still write this blog. Millionairesses have biological clocks too.
Last night I experienced a new neighbourhood nuisance; a family of Eastern Europeans (couldn’t quite make out the accent) who thoughtfully chose to hold an hour long conflab with their friend, a middle-aged, beer-gutted tattooed skinhead in their front garden at 2.30 am.
After busily busy-bodying around in the dark to gauge the situation I decided not to venture out in my dressing gown. It’s all well and good asking the household two houses to the right to stop their all-night fireworks at 4am, but skinheads with tattooed arms and beer guts?
Instead, I put the light on and pulled my curtain back. The woman of the house clocked me.
“Good,” I thought. “Just a matter of seconds now.”
Instead she took a long drag on her fag and carried on yacking. I threw the curtains back in disgust, put earplugs in and tried VERY HARD not to be angry. I then re-read the same sentence in my book for half an hour while trying to ignore the noise.
I got a bit cross with the world and crap people like that. Yob like elements who Daily Mail hacks write about to pay their mortgages. Then guilt pangs kicked in and I figured maybe they'd had terrible lives... then fury again as I realised I’m probably paying for them to live there.
Just as I'd fallen back to sleep again, a car came screeching to a halt outside our house. The Prince slept on. It was now 4am. I thought I was about to witness a shooting. Two men were having an argument on the pavement. One had left his car parked in the middle of the road and turned the lights off. That got me worrying another car might come round the bend and smash into it. The argument lasted about 20 minutes during which no gunshot sounded. Urban living pitfalls. At least there are no cars on fire like around the corner.
How I yearn for the Surrey heartlands with lush greenery and birdsong. Oh to be disturbed by little furrowing foxes or squirrels foraging for nuts.
Tomorrow I lose internet access for a whole week while I switch provider. Not sure how I'll cope without my secret e-friend to write to.
The worst bit is I could be rich! I received an email from Camelot saying "we have good news about your lottery ticket" (I do the weekly draw via direct debit). I logged on but couldn't remember my username and password. I had to fill in a form on their website and am now waiting for my new temporary sign in details to be emailed. It's been two hours now and still nothing and tomorrow I go offline. The Prince has gone a bit nuts - he's cash obsessed.
I might actually be a millionairess right now but not know it. If I am I'll still write this blog. Millionairesses have biological clocks too.
Friday, 9 March 2007
Dale Carnegie
Went for lunch with Nat today as I’m working near his office. We had omelette and chips at Nico’s cafe. Nat said I am not “winning friends and influencing people” a la Dale Carnegie. Carnegie promotes friendliness and flattery as key components of success and the sad thing is, it works. If I’m dealing with an old battleaxe on the phone and if I say something really nice about them I will always get a result.
So why did I not do the same with the charmless hag who’s been firing off rude emails to me over the last week about a phone line in her office I once used.
I think it was her “Development Executive” title that annoyed me. If she’s such a bigwig why can’t she order one of her minions to sort it out? My sixth sense let me down. I should have known people were still phoning for me on that line. What a nuisance to “her team”.
Oh how I wish I’d tapped into my inner calm a la Bridget Jones instead of losing my temper. Life is just too short. Sophia Wurzle also needs to learn how to Carnegie people.
I decided to renew efforts to keep my anger levels in check.
"How?" asked Nat.
"By visualising a shiny, happy person – someone like Larni Mukta (my friend’s sister). She’s always smiling and always has time to talk."
I left Nico's cafe with great expectations. From now on I would radiate that same warmth and loveliness. I also decided that when I got home I would copy out inspiring affirmations and stick them around the house.
"That's really not necessary," Nat said.
I returned to the office with a new found tranquility. All afternoon I transcended niggles and negativity from Sophia Wurzle in an ocean of calm. I’m sure this is how born again Christians feel.
The new me lasted about 3 hours. She was killed off by a loud Australian woman who got on the train and sat directly opposite on the way home. The woman took out a mobile phone and rang her long lost friend. Then began her entire life story. Fellow passengers and I learned she'd had a tough childhood when her rich parents wouldn't buy her an expensive necklace, was now having man trouble, was reading "Women Who Love Too Much" and that her mother has a swollen thyroid and is taking iodine for it.
I tried to visualise Larni Mukta while my fingers tapped a merry rhythm on the unread pages of my book. I glared, hoping to embarrass her into silence. It was futile. She never noticed the small manic woman with dark hair giving her evil eyes. All the goodness sapped out of me. Soon there’ll be mobiles on planes and tubes. At this point I will despair and become a hermit.
I wondered what Dale Carnegie would do in this situation.
So why did I not do the same with the charmless hag who’s been firing off rude emails to me over the last week about a phone line in her office I once used.
I think it was her “Development Executive” title that annoyed me. If she’s such a bigwig why can’t she order one of her minions to sort it out? My sixth sense let me down. I should have known people were still phoning for me on that line. What a nuisance to “her team”.
Oh how I wish I’d tapped into my inner calm a la Bridget Jones instead of losing my temper. Life is just too short. Sophia Wurzle also needs to learn how to Carnegie people.
I decided to renew efforts to keep my anger levels in check.
"How?" asked Nat.
"By visualising a shiny, happy person – someone like Larni Mukta (my friend’s sister). She’s always smiling and always has time to talk."
I left Nico's cafe with great expectations. From now on I would radiate that same warmth and loveliness. I also decided that when I got home I would copy out inspiring affirmations and stick them around the house.
"That's really not necessary," Nat said.
I returned to the office with a new found tranquility. All afternoon I transcended niggles and negativity from Sophia Wurzle in an ocean of calm. I’m sure this is how born again Christians feel.
The new me lasted about 3 hours. She was killed off by a loud Australian woman who got on the train and sat directly opposite on the way home. The woman took out a mobile phone and rang her long lost friend. Then began her entire life story. Fellow passengers and I learned she'd had a tough childhood when her rich parents wouldn't buy her an expensive necklace, was now having man trouble, was reading "Women Who Love Too Much" and that her mother has a swollen thyroid and is taking iodine for it.
I tried to visualise Larni Mukta while my fingers tapped a merry rhythm on the unread pages of my book. I glared, hoping to embarrass her into silence. It was futile. She never noticed the small manic woman with dark hair giving her evil eyes. All the goodness sapped out of me. Soon there’ll be mobiles on planes and tubes. At this point I will despair and become a hermit.
I wondered what Dale Carnegie would do in this situation.
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
Centipedes
He’s not listening to me… again. I’d get more out of a conversation with a snail at the end of the garden. At least they’re only glued to the wall, not the television. In fact watching garden creatures has never been so appealing.
A centipede scurrying about the soil is far more attractive than the Prince picking his nose to oblivion. At this time of heightened awareness of all that’s negative about him, his daily nose pick has taken on new meaning.
To me, it is him chest-banging and saying, “I am a man and proud of my disgusting habits. I stand firm by this daily ritual you find so repulsive. It is a part of me, always has been, always will be and never shall it be cast away by any woman.”
Before I met the Prince, if I saw a man picking his nose it was usually a bloke in a traffic jam who didn’t know he'd been spotted. I found this so revolting it made me nauseous. It was worse than long, curly fingernails. Worse than old food stuck in someone’s beard. Worse than stinky bums or cheesy ear wax.
Yet here I am virtually married to someone who happily does this every day… and in front of my friends. He doesn’t just put his finger up his nostril and scrape. He also rolls his pickings between his finger and thumb and flicks it onto the floor. This whole episode lasts around five minutes every day. I just try and meditate or avert my eyes. I put it down to his neglected childhood – that helps.
So today a friend asked how it was going on the baby front. I didn't tell her I am full of resentment and starting to hate him with each passing day. Instead I mentioned my “deceive to conceive” idea and she asked how it would work. Not wanting to go into too much detail – mainly because I haven’t quite worked it out myself yet – I told her about the turkey baster.
“Doesn’t sperm lose its potency if it’s exposed to air?” she asked. That is something I don’t know so when I’ve finished writing this am going online to research it. That will keep the little lady busy and the Prince can watch all his recorded news shows in uninterrupted bliss and give the Pause button a break.
A centipede scurrying about the soil is far more attractive than the Prince picking his nose to oblivion. At this time of heightened awareness of all that’s negative about him, his daily nose pick has taken on new meaning.
To me, it is him chest-banging and saying, “I am a man and proud of my disgusting habits. I stand firm by this daily ritual you find so repulsive. It is a part of me, always has been, always will be and never shall it be cast away by any woman.”
Before I met the Prince, if I saw a man picking his nose it was usually a bloke in a traffic jam who didn’t know he'd been spotted. I found this so revolting it made me nauseous. It was worse than long, curly fingernails. Worse than old food stuck in someone’s beard. Worse than stinky bums or cheesy ear wax.
Yet here I am virtually married to someone who happily does this every day… and in front of my friends. He doesn’t just put his finger up his nostril and scrape. He also rolls his pickings between his finger and thumb and flicks it onto the floor. This whole episode lasts around five minutes every day. I just try and meditate or avert my eyes. I put it down to his neglected childhood – that helps.
So today a friend asked how it was going on the baby front. I didn't tell her I am full of resentment and starting to hate him with each passing day. Instead I mentioned my “deceive to conceive” idea and she asked how it would work. Not wanting to go into too much detail – mainly because I haven’t quite worked it out myself yet – I told her about the turkey baster.
“Doesn’t sperm lose its potency if it’s exposed to air?” she asked. That is something I don’t know so when I’ve finished writing this am going online to research it. That will keep the little lady busy and the Prince can watch all his recorded news shows in uninterrupted bliss and give the Pause button a break.
Sunday, 4 March 2007
Deceive to conceive
I don’t want to come across as a spoilt brat who’s just not getting what she wants. I know I’m lucky to have my daughter. I also know that kids are starving in Africa and there are people younger than me dying of cancer. I try to live in the moment, appreciate what I have and stop wanting more. But then someone will say something like “don’t let her be an only child whatever you do” and I feel sad Rosie will never know the closeness of a sister or brother.
My mum rang the other morning.
“Put on Woman’s Hour. It’s about women who want children when their husbands don’t.”
I listened for inspiration but came away unconvinced. The story that stuck was about a man who only changed his mind after being swept up in the tsunami. I can hardly arrange for disaster to strike him, though sometimes I find myself wishing it would.
The Prince and I have been together five years. Our daughter Rosie, who’s three, is the most treasured being on this planet (apart from when she draws blood at bedtime).
We got pregnant in the heat of a new relationship. It’s irresponsible to have a kid with someone you’ve only known for six months but even then my body clock had introduced itself. I no longer cared for my stripped wood floorboards if there were no tiny feet to pitter patter over them.
The Prince was appalled when the blue line appeared. I forgot to mention he's eight years younger. But he soon got over the shock and we were lucky. It worked out. He’s besotted with Rosie. Had we waited for the “right” time, she’d not be here. It’s not rocket science, that’s why I’m baffled now. Everything’s been so good until my friends got cracking on expanding their brood and I got left behind.
There’s only one route left. I must deceive to conceive.
My mum rang the other morning.
“Put on Woman’s Hour. It’s about women who want children when their husbands don’t.”
I listened for inspiration but came away unconvinced. The story that stuck was about a man who only changed his mind after being swept up in the tsunami. I can hardly arrange for disaster to strike him, though sometimes I find myself wishing it would.
The Prince and I have been together five years. Our daughter Rosie, who’s three, is the most treasured being on this planet (apart from when she draws blood at bedtime).
We got pregnant in the heat of a new relationship. It’s irresponsible to have a kid with someone you’ve only known for six months but even then my body clock had introduced itself. I no longer cared for my stripped wood floorboards if there were no tiny feet to pitter patter over them.
The Prince was appalled when the blue line appeared. I forgot to mention he's eight years younger. But he soon got over the shock and we were lucky. It worked out. He’s besotted with Rosie. Had we waited for the “right” time, she’d not be here. It’s not rocket science, that’s why I’m baffled now. Everything’s been so good until my friends got cracking on expanding their brood and I got left behind.
There’s only one route left. I must deceive to conceive.
Friday, 2 March 2007
Loch Ness Monster
The Prince’s real name is Nat. I began calling him the Prince when I introduced him to an old acquaintance of mine, housework. We’d just moved into a three storey house and I was in contact with my old buddy more often than I wished.
The Prince comes from a wealthy background where they had a live-in housekeeper or “maid” as he says. I think that’s a derogatory term to use for someone who scrubs your shit off your toilet. Three years on, he accepts magic drawers with clean clothes don’t exist and empties the dishwasher without being asked but the name has stuck.
About a month ago I reached for my hammer and chisel and started again on the steel shutters. The Prince was lying on his front hanging over the side of the bed reading.
“Can I talk to you?” I said. Silence.
“Nat, I need to talk.” Nothing. Ok, he asked for it.
“Nat,” I said. “I do not feel we are communicating anymore. You just refuse to talk to me about the baby thing so I’ve made us an appointment with a Relate counsellor.”
Silence…. Then movement. He raised his head like the Loch Ness monster and turned to look at me.
“You’ve done what?”
“It’s the only way I think we are going to re-connect.”
“That’s going to cost a fortune.”
“£50 an hour”
“We can’t afford that”
“It’s worth it to save our relationship.”
“Things aren’t that bad are they?”
“Yes they are. You do not talk to me about the baby thing and it is becoming a big problem for me. I need to know where your head’s at.”
“We can’t afford a second baby.”
“Yes we can. We’ll just have to be a bit poor for a while.”
“I’m not comfortable with the idea and don’t want to discuss this now. The Relate thing is very heavy and I’ll have to think about it.”
Then he switched his light off and hasn’t mentioned it since.
The Prince comes from a wealthy background where they had a live-in housekeeper or “maid” as he says. I think that’s a derogatory term to use for someone who scrubs your shit off your toilet. Three years on, he accepts magic drawers with clean clothes don’t exist and empties the dishwasher without being asked but the name has stuck.
About a month ago I reached for my hammer and chisel and started again on the steel shutters. The Prince was lying on his front hanging over the side of the bed reading.
“Can I talk to you?” I said. Silence.
“Nat, I need to talk.” Nothing. Ok, he asked for it.
“Nat,” I said. “I do not feel we are communicating anymore. You just refuse to talk to me about the baby thing so I’ve made us an appointment with a Relate counsellor.”
Silence…. Then movement. He raised his head like the Loch Ness monster and turned to look at me.
“You’ve done what?”
“It’s the only way I think we are going to re-connect.”
“That’s going to cost a fortune.”
“£50 an hour”
“We can’t afford that”
“It’s worth it to save our relationship.”
“Things aren’t that bad are they?”
“Yes they are. You do not talk to me about the baby thing and it is becoming a big problem for me. I need to know where your head’s at.”
“We can’t afford a second baby.”
“Yes we can. We’ll just have to be a bit poor for a while.”
“I’m not comfortable with the idea and don’t want to discuss this now. The Relate thing is very heavy and I’ll have to think about it.”
Then he switched his light off and hasn’t mentioned it since.
Thursday, 1 March 2007
Turkey baster
It’s good to start recording any race on the first of the month. Date: March 1st 2007. Time: 12:52pm. Location: London. Weather: sunny, bright, blue sky.
The race is against my body clock. For two years I’ve been trying to convince my boyfriend (the Prince) the time is right for another baby. Now panic stations have set in. I’m 39 in May and he’s no closer to agreement. I’ve tried all the following:
1) giving him time and backing off
2) setting myself deadlines (then extending them)
3) talking about it
4) not talking about it
5) phoning a Relate counsellor
6) printing out a costings sheet to prove we can afford it
7) soliciting the help of our three-year-old daughter to ask him for a sister
It's baffling that a man so clued up on the world has no idea about a woman's fertility. He says, "Holly Hunter had twins at the age of 47, you've got loads of time." The Prince reads almost all the papers every single day but still truly believes this. Any page with a headline containing the words "women, 35, fertility, declines and steeply" gets flicked over. Sometimes I've left an article under his pillow. He'll say "what's this?", frown, snort and put it straight on the floor.
About a year ago the Prince said “it’s so uninspiring when you mention it all the time” and I swore I’d keep quiet. I did for a good long time, only piping up again when he appeared no closer to inspiration a year down the line. Now he’s yanked down some heavy shutters. The days roll by and the issue festers.
I’ve had all sorts of advice - “get pregnant by accident,” by far the most common. In response to this I roll out one of the following clichés: “easier said than done”, “would if I could”, “wishful thinking” or “it’s an accident waiting to happen”. I have to explain the last one so rarely use it.
Thing is, during sex the Prince is a control freak and a freak in control. For two years he has either leapt off at crunch time or yelled “stop” if I’m on top. Sometimes I get so upset I curl up and cry for my poor deprived eggs. Other times I sulk. Or I get “heavy” and want to talk things through. Only I can’t because of his steel shutters.
The other day my aunt lent me a turkey baster. “It’s time for drastic action,” she said. “This is horrid,” I replied. I never intended to get pregnant deceitfully. But now I wish I’d kept quiet about stopping the Pill. My friend Fleur secretly had her coil removed. Her bloke was angry at first when she got pregnant but now he’s delighted with their new baby daughter. I know the Prince will be fine once our second one is here and part of our lives. It’s the getting it here that’s the problem.
Anyway, I took the turkey baster.
The race is against my body clock. For two years I’ve been trying to convince my boyfriend (the Prince) the time is right for another baby. Now panic stations have set in. I’m 39 in May and he’s no closer to agreement. I’ve tried all the following:
1) giving him time and backing off
2) setting myself deadlines (then extending them)
3) talking about it
4) not talking about it
5) phoning a Relate counsellor
6) printing out a costings sheet to prove we can afford it
7) soliciting the help of our three-year-old daughter to ask him for a sister
It's baffling that a man so clued up on the world has no idea about a woman's fertility. He says, "Holly Hunter had twins at the age of 47, you've got loads of time." The Prince reads almost all the papers every single day but still truly believes this. Any page with a headline containing the words "women, 35, fertility, declines and steeply" gets flicked over. Sometimes I've left an article under his pillow. He'll say "what's this?", frown, snort and put it straight on the floor.
About a year ago the Prince said “it’s so uninspiring when you mention it all the time” and I swore I’d keep quiet. I did for a good long time, only piping up again when he appeared no closer to inspiration a year down the line. Now he’s yanked down some heavy shutters. The days roll by and the issue festers.
I’ve had all sorts of advice - “get pregnant by accident,” by far the most common. In response to this I roll out one of the following clichés: “easier said than done”, “would if I could”, “wishful thinking” or “it’s an accident waiting to happen”. I have to explain the last one so rarely use it.
Thing is, during sex the Prince is a control freak and a freak in control. For two years he has either leapt off at crunch time or yelled “stop” if I’m on top. Sometimes I get so upset I curl up and cry for my poor deprived eggs. Other times I sulk. Or I get “heavy” and want to talk things through. Only I can’t because of his steel shutters.
The other day my aunt lent me a turkey baster. “It’s time for drastic action,” she said. “This is horrid,” I replied. I never intended to get pregnant deceitfully. But now I wish I’d kept quiet about stopping the Pill. My friend Fleur secretly had her coil removed. Her bloke was angry at first when she got pregnant but now he’s delighted with their new baby daughter. I know the Prince will be fine once our second one is here and part of our lives. It’s the getting it here that’s the problem.
Anyway, I took the turkey baster.
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