When Eggs Go Bad...

25 Down, 15 to Go

I had my 25 week check-up by my GP and everything is fine. Blood pressure is good and growth is right on target. And the UFO wriggles around so much that I think I'm ready to send back the rented foetal doppler. I haven't used it for 5 weeks now, and I believe I can finally put down that particular £20 per month crutch.

I was bemused by my GP's attitude during the check-up. She gave me a big hello and said "Well, you finally got there in the end!". I laughed and told her we'd waited quite a while to try again and wondered whether that helped. But she reckoned it was just the luck of the draw, and then went on to treat me like any other normal pregnant woman. Yet somehow, I still feel like anything but. I didn't necessarily want anything different from her; it just still surprises me when I'm reminded that my recurrent losses were in all likelihood just shit luck. I still feel like I must be under some curse that everyone can see.

*Gack!* I'm not making any sense.

Anyway, Badeggs Boy (or Bad Boy, as I like to call him) is fine. And, no, I'm not pretending to keep the gender a secret anymore; you've all figured it out anyway being the observant lot that you are!

By the way, thanks to those of you who left comments on my last commentable post or who e-mailed about my decision to switch comments off. I wanted to say that I'm not upset with anybody about single digit comments; what I was trying to get across is that my feeble and sometimes fragile id or ego or whatever was trying desperately to convince me to take it personally. In switching off the comments, I switched off that particular self-applied pressure. In other words: it's not you, it's me. I hope that make sense, because it's been great not to be worrying about checking comments!

Anyway, if you really need to tell me something, you can still e-mail me. I'm still here, I promise.

Turned Off

For those who are interested (and it looks like there's really not that many), I've disabled comments on this blog.

When I found myself worrying at 2.30 this morning about the dearth of comments, and feeling angry and hurt that the only time I get a lot of them is when my heart has been ripped out by a miscarriage, I knew I had fallen into the trap of letting this blog be for other people instead of for me.

I will still update about UFO's progress, but I just don't want to fret about how many people are reading the posts and be constantly comparing myself to other bloggers whose comments number in double digits. It's too tempting to base my sense of self-worth on it, and frankly I've lost enough popularity contests in my youth to want to start playing that game again at 37. The whole idea of the blog was to work through my grief at my losses and now (Universe willing) to document my pregnancy with my son. I don't need comments to do that.

To those who have made the effort, whether once or many times, please know how much I appreciate it. I hope you'll keep coming back to read.

Ready...Aim...

I am much less cranky today, which is kind of a miracle when you consider that yesterday I had to travel by air; something that, as a general rule, normally has me hissing and spitting for at least a week afterward. It's also a miracle when you consider that on Friday, my week ended with having to fire someone.

I love being a manager. And I know that being a manager means that sometimes you have to take tough decisions. I know that the flip side of having to tell someone how great they're doing is having to tell someone that they are falling down on the job. And unfortunately, the flip side of the thrill of telling someone they're hired seeing the sense of accomplishment light up their face, is having to tell someone that despite having said all the right things at interview and been hired, in reality they are not cut out for the job and will no longer have said job come Monday.

I feel bad, though not guilty. I followed all the legal rules and all the internal procedure, and I can say with hand on heart that I gave this person every possible chance to improve and that, at the end of the day, she just wasn't capable of what she was being asked to do. We've offered assistance in finding a new job, will give her a standard reference, and I even managed to get the company to waive its right to claim back the deposit it paid on her rental property when she relocated here so that she won't have to panic about that. I gave her positive feedback where it was due, and an honest but gentle assessment of her shortcomings. And at the end of the day, I believe that it was the best decision for the company, for her colleagues, and probably, in the long run, even for her. But boy I wish I hadn't had to do it.

Today's drama is waiting to see if my ex-Fuckwit gets charged for harassment (it's looking likely). UPDATE: just learned he will be charged at 2 pm today. That's assuming he shows up, because apparently he has told the police that he's far too busy at work (he drives a tour bus round town) to show up for his legally required bail interview... If he shows up, he'll have a court appearance for harassment in a couple of months' time. If he doesn't show up, the court appearance will also be to answer charges of failing to meet bail conditions. The man is beyond help, I swear. But, you know, he basically terrorized and abused me, by letter and the occasional phone call, for NINE YEARS! It got to the point where I started shaking every time the post dropped through the letterbox, because there might have been a letter from him. I shouldn't have to take that. I wish I could bloody well fire him.

Baby B is doing well, if all the kicking and wriggling is anything to go by. I am profoundly grateful every time I feel him (ahem..or her) move. To what or whom I don't know, since I refuse to give God credit as long as he fails to take responsibility for the bad stuff. But I know just how lucky I am.

I am as big as, or possibly bigger than, Cleveland, but the good news is my boobs don't hurt quite so badly anymore. My back, however, is a different story and my new office chair is making it worse. But lest you think I am complaining, let me assure you I am not. I am profoundly grateful for every twinge, ache and acid reflux, too.