Mister and I dragged Bama to San Francisco early Saturday morning so that I could take a pregnancy test. Afterwards, full of dread and a wee bit of hope, we set off for the Ferry Building and the farmers' market for sights and tastes.
Bama was well-attired in a new coat Papa ordered from lil elephants. ("Etsy is my drug and Bama is my enabler," he said.) (The photo below is from a couple of days earlier, when they were out on their morning walk. The tongue helps her keep balance.)
So, here's my girl, in an orange coat with purple flower buttons, jeans with pink fleece cuffs, silver sneakers with pink laces and two women parking near us notice her. "He's so cute!" one says. He? I'm not terribly hung up on the he thing since Bama's been called a boy since day one. All babies, especially those with little or no hair, are boys in this world. But, really? Look at this child. He?
Bama marched around the plaza in her new orange coat, tipping into people now and again. She likes to stop and smell the flowers at the farmers' markets, and this time she sniffed some lemons, licked a potato, and shared my bacon and eggs.
Meanwhile, I tried to avoid clock-watching as we waited for three hours to go by and test results to come in. We'd transferred frozen embryo number two the week before. Our doctor said we had a 40-50 percent chance of success, and I was really trying to feel the cup half full, but I also had to assume it wouldn't stick to help curb my disappointment.
I am not pregnant, though I did score a 1.3 on the pregnancy hormone scale (50 means you're pregnant). And now I have my period, so we really know I'm not pregnant. Being the female half of our partnership means I not only get the disappointment of the negative test but the ignominious period. Maybe ignominious isn't the right word. Maybe it's mockery. I feel like my period mocks me. Haha, it says, you've got stuff going on, but not the right stuff. Bugger all.
Given our blues, our romance meter dipped pretty low. But we rallied. Mister made steaks and baked potatoes, and put the creme fraiche on the table which surprised me so much I thought someone had scooped out the carton at the store and was grossed out for a bit. I whipped up a salad. Then I put my head on the table and cried and complained.
The night was saved by the decision to watch a movie. We'd had Children of Heaven, an Iranian film about a brother and sister who share a pair of schools after he loses hers, around for months from Netflix. Mister brought down pillows and even though I wanted to wallow some more, by myself, I curled up with him instead.
Oh, kismet. It was wonderful. The cuddles and the movie lifted our spirits just enough to get us, or at least me, through the rest of the evening.
If you aren't sure if the whole trying to get pregnant thing sucks or not, it does. It sucks hard.