She has cramps, she says. I say, what if your uterus is acting up because there's a little wee creature in it? But Heather is certain that she's not pregnant and that she's about to start her period, and I'm not in any position to insist otherwise.
Today is Mother's Day-- blah blah blah-- and Heather told me as she got up this morning that she wasn't one. Yesterday, someone left a Mother's Day note on my desk in error, intending it for a co-worker with a five-year-old son; I thanked the co-worker, thinking her name was a signature rather than part of the message, and she said, oh, well, you have a cat, right?
It looks like we're going to be gearing up for another insemination soon, renewing the cryobank/donor debates. Fairfax has a Mother's Day special this week, so there's that, and our chosen donor is supposed to be spectacularly good-looking, but is he the guy? Does it really matter? After five rounds, sperm is sperm, and I don't much care as long as we get a baby off it.
The other debate that's delicately at hand is how much I should be an asshole about Heather's lifestyle choices. I'm a nag by nature, and it's a tendency that needs to be beaten into submission when it comes to having a successful relationship, but sometimes shit matters, you know? And what I think probably matters is that Heather smokes.
Don't freak out. I know: it's really bad. It's really bad on its own and I'm inclined to think it's pretty bad for her fertility. I haven't researched, though, because I'm scared of the answer-- that it will spur the nagging and spur the stress that I don't want to put on her. I told her yesterday, post-Midol, that if she wasn't pregnant, I was going to go into full-on nagging mode about healthy food, etc., and she seemed to accept that, but no mention was made of cigarettes, and they're the smoky, ashy elephants in the room.
I've got no leverage here. Heather's is the womb in play, her money is financing the effort, and her addiction is something I can't understand. I'm not sure I have the right to say anything when all I can claim is emotional investment.
So I suppose I'll get out the books-- the ones I read and marked assiduously before we figured out how to use a speculum and took the easy route with the fertility monitor-- and get to the grocery store. I'll supply Heather with oranges and full-fat dairy, and find out about this Robitussin business. As the addiction advice goes, I will try to recognize what I can control and what I can't. Baby dust!