My best friend Sarah told me she was on pins and needles about our two-week wait. I was honestly startled, because I've forgotten to be and I'll be the one mopping spit-up from my shirt. (She also told me she thinks my blog should be turned into a book, so, if you're a publisher with exquisite taste, let me know.)
By this point in our last round-- October, for god's sake-- Heather had already cheated with a test and cried in the dark on a cemetery tour when she felt cramps. It was painful in every respect, even as we were introduced to Elvis' beloved and charismatic cook. A man in a Hover Round nearly ran us over and I wanted to kick it over, much as I understood his desire to exploit his apparent disability for ill. Road rage, I guess, doesn't atrophy with one's legs.
A week after that, we bought extra pregnancy tests at Walgreens on our way to dinner at Robert and Kelly's house. Kelly supervised her pot roast, Robert and I drank, and Heather was locked in the bathroom, hoping for even the faintest second blue line. An hour later, her period came, so we went back to cuddling their baby, then solemnly drove home.
Today, though, we're a week past our second insemination, and we're not worried about anything but whether the goddamn electrician is going to call us back. There is no point to having a beautiful microwave if it's plugged into a faulty outlet. I'm glad for the additional distraction-- stove-top oatmeal aside-- and grateful, too, that the kitchen updates created such a mess that Heather spent hours cleaning it yesterday, presumably without contemplating whether her stomach is acting up because of a maturing embryo.
That said, she did buy a box of pregnancy tests Saturday after we selected an inappropriate card for our friend Renee's birthday. I'm considering hiding them from her till the weekend.