Delays, Delays

Every spring, without fail, some sort of lurgy delivers most righteous smackdown on my unwary ass. This year has been no different. I went to a conference feeling a bit under the weather and 3 nights of late night wheeling and dealing left me decidedly worse for wear.

This is one of those weeks. Tired of coughing, tired of sneezing, tired of the fever... just plain tired. I want to get back to the gym, to cycling to work and to being able to hack the whole Weight Watchers thing without going, "Ack, I feel awful, so therefore, I deserve cookies."

Had hoped to do the temperature thing this cycle as well, but as I've had a fever for nearly a week and a half now, I thought it might be a little silly to even attempt. The thought of the hormone level test will have to stay me for now; hopefully it will shed some light on potential causes of past pregnancy issues.

Mr. Devil Duck and I need to wait until July to start "trying" in earnest. ("What, like fucking?") As we have a trip to the States scheduled for Christmas, we need to make sure that I'd still be able to travel. Although this kind of puts a BIG ol' crimp in snowboarding plans, I think I'm ready to make the sacrifice. :)

The basal temperature thing worked pretty well the last time. It must be much harder for women with irregular cycles to try to track the damn things. Some of the things I've read on other TTC blogs look like advanced calculus. I'm glad I'm regular, cause I'm also absolutely abismal at math. I think I'd get fed up and go, "You know what? I feel horny. Let's have a shag and hope for the best."

I should actually be banned from reading other blogs about conception and birth. I'm a natural worrier and I know that I'm going to spend my entire eventual pregnancy in a heightened state of mild hysteria because of the 8 million things that can go wrong but most likely won't. I'm not sure if it's worse to be unaware that you're prone to hysterics or completely aware and unable to stop it. I'm in the second camp, unfortunately. I KNOW I shouldn't worry about stuff, but I have a highly developed freak-out complex which is happily countered by a husband who really, really doesn't. "It's okay," he'll tell me, "you're not dying. It's just gas."

I'm going to do my best to be as laid back as possible. I think the first twelve weeks will be a nightmare, no matter how laid back I attempt to be, just because of what's gone before, but after I manage to get past that milestone, I hope to cold-cock the little bastard part of my brain that will undoubtedly start blubbering about every ache and pain, questioning their normality. Otherwise, I think I might very likely spend 9 months in a padded cell.