When Eggs Go Bad...

BA Stops All Flights

It was bound to happen....

Paging The Doctor

You may recall that I am now a fully paid up member of the Silver Cervix club, entitled to all manner of monitoring, mollycoddling and general reassurance in early pregnancy. I think I may sign up for their 7-week scan package. You get a long wait in a dingy waiting room followed by a good wanding. And if they don't see a heartbeat, you get an all-expenses-paid trip to the day surgery ward for a Rake 'n' Vac.

With three miscarriages and four dead babies under my belt, I'm now at Platinum level. It's all very prestigious.

Crap. This post was supposed to be funny, but I just don't seem to have the heart for it. I don't really want to go for a scan. but the alternative is spending the next few weeks holding my breath. My baby could die (hell it could already be dead for all I know) and I wouldn't know about it until 9, 10 weeks or later, when I finally started to 'expel' it. So I'm speaking to the Silver Cervix people this afternoon to see what they say.

I'm having fairly impressive morning sickness. No vomiting, but a lot of retching and general queasiness (it feels like I am permanently hungover). My boobs are ultra-sore. And I'm quite tired. And you know what? It could all go away any day, any minute even. I trawled Google University for any link between morning sickness and miscarriage rates. Some research shows there's a link between morning sickness and a low miscarriage rate. Others say not. One study even said that vomiting morning sickness has a lower miscarriage incidence that just nauseous morning sickness. What's a heaving girl to think?

I HATE this uncertainty. I hate the fact that if I see a heartbeat at the scan, I won't trust it and will STILL worry. I hate the fact that if I manage to get past 13 weeks I won't trust it. After all, Catherine's baby died at 20 weeks. I wish I had a crystal ball. For all of us.

But there is no crystal ball. There's only this imperfect, sometimes unhappy life. There's only the possibility of joy equal to the possibility of despair. We can only ever be sure of this moment, right here, right now. Nothing else. But if only I could go forward in time, just for a glimpse. Where is Dr Who when you need him.

What I Meant by 'Computer Says No'

Go to the following link and click on the photo next to the words 'TV Series Three'. Then click on 'Four: Carol' in the red box on the right.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/littlebritain/clips/

Still makes me chuckle...

Big Fat ZERO

You know how much I love those digital OPKs, right? With their cute little smiley faces that coyly let you know when it's time to bump the boot-knocking up to twice a day? Yeah... the trouble with that is that the opposite of the smiley face is the big empty circle. The empty circle of doom. The one that mocks you by staring sullenly out of the little stick window, as if to say: "Uh huh, bitch. Take a look at me. I'm EMPTY. Like your uterus. And, by the way, your ovaries ain't exactly full of life, either."

I'm gonna level with you here. We've had so much sex we almost don't like it any more. I've developed a Robitussin habit that has me swigging directly from the bottle on crowded public transport. And when I have a pee?...I'm not ashamed to admit it...I do a cervical fluid inspection to see if it's eggy yet. (OK, maybe I am a little ashamed to admit that.) In short, I'm doing everything right and now my body is maybe, you know, taking a break from the whole ovulation thing, maybe to 'find itself'.

Sigh.

Tomorrow, we have friends coming over with their three kids. Badeggs the Younger and I met them 6 years ago during a trip to Lapland and although we don't see each other that often it is always fantastic fun when we do manage to meet up. So from 4.30 pm onwards I will have 8 people in a 2.5 bedroom house (the third bedroom is smaller than my parents' walk-in closet, so I just can't bring myself to count it as a whole room). I will have a dinner to cook, wine to drink, and much catching up to do. So, what do we reckon the smiley face'll show up at 4.35?

And I think if you look closely, you'll see that it's actually laughing.

Send Reinforcements...and Cake

Ack!! (as Bill the Cat used to say...that dates me)

This job is not kidding. You know how there are some jobs where you really can do everything you're supposed to do and still haev time to check your personal e-mail, write that letter of complaint to teh insirance company AND post an entry to you blog. Uh huh. Not so much for Lola. This job is dead serious, takes no prisoners and wants to kick my ass.

Don't get me wrong: I am still totally pumped about my new role. I feel like I've already made a positive difference to my staff (who were all severely demoralised after a reorganisation) and I'm full steam ahead on a couple of projects that I think will actually improve efficiency, not just be busy work that pisses everyone off. I hit the ground running and haven't stopped since.

But DEAR GOD am I tired! And I am also feeling rather guilty about neglecting the Badeggs Bitchfest that is When Eggs Go Bad. Even though by February I was starting to feel paranoid since I seemed to have gone from an average of 9 or 10 comments to 3 or 4 for each post, I still feel guilty about virtually abandoning the hard core of Lola-teers who actually seem to care about me enough to come back and read my latest attempt at humour. I have good intentions about blogging at the weekend or in the evenings, but I'm finding that the flesh is weak, even when the spirit is game for a laugh.

Please, my lovely readers, don't desert Lola yet. I will get my act together. As a teaser, I can reveal to you that my boobs are REALLY sore this month, much more so than usual. So I'm wondering if Mr Badeggs has finally done his manly duty in my uty [I'm sorry, that was totally uncalled for and it won't happen again - ed.]. I know I said I wouldn't be telling, but that was several months ago, and right now I'm feeling like I want the support network if it is, indeed, Prelude to a Miscarriage: Part IV. So watch this space.

Usurpers

My God. It would seem I have come back in the nick of time. One more day away and Mr Badeggs would have usurped my throne. Honestly, you think you can trust your spouse. But no, as soon as my back is turned, there he is being all funny and charming and what not. It really is hell being married to someone so intelligent and witty. Pity me, friends. Pity. Me.

So, yes, it is true. There was a certain amount of playing during my business trip to deepest, darkest North Africa. (I think I can be honest about where I was: Mr B's references to camels, henna and the 'Dark Continent' pretty much gives it away.) In my defense, it truly was a big strategic business conference sort of thing. I can't help it if the Directors, in their infinite wisdom, decided that some heavy duty team building activity was in order and that it should take the form, at least in part, of mountain biking, offroading and camel riding. In my defense, as the 'new kid on the block', I pretty much had to participate enthusiastically. Am I right? And if that extended to watching some extremely fetching Bedouins doing horse tricks, well, I am here but to serve.

The problem with North Africa is that there is a lot of lamb to eat. I mean A LOT. I'm practically baaaa'ing. Another problem is that I pretty much cleaned out my bank account buying beautiful, exotic things that will probably look sad and silly in my house but spoke eloquently to me while in the Aladdin's cave that is the Souk (if you click on the link, you'll see an actual photo of where I was! But that's not me there...). The good thing is that what with the heavy duty work and even heavier duty socialising with colleagues, I didn't once think about miscarriage. It was a vacation in more ways than one.

I've come back to the realisation that this job is going to be HARD but endlessly fulfilling. I'm already loving it. I've also come back to a jillion new e-mails from people who are interested in being in the book I'm writing, so I really do need to knuckle down and start sifting through the contributions and, oh, I don't know, maybe actually write the damn proposal. Feel free to offer virtual ass kickings.

It's good to be back, ladies and germs, really good. While I'm finding my feet at work, I may be posting slightly less frequently than I normally do, but I'll try not to leave it for 3 weeks like this time. And I'll try to keep Mr Badeggs away from the throne while still letting him come out to play now and then...

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Sooo, the sun settles down behind the mountains, and day turns to night over the bustling town of M******** in the Dark Continent. Calls to prayer issue forth from the Minarets and after a hard days work, Mrs BadEggs makes contact with BadEggs basecamp in dear old damp Blighty, with an update on the "work" that has been undertaken today.

Mrs B "Hi, it's me, how are the two of you?"

Mr B "Yup We're OK, just got in the door, and gotta cook dinner and stuff, How did it go today?"

Mrs B "Oh it was really good. I have a Henna tattoo on my ankle and it's really cool"
(work? eh? oh well...)

Mrs B "And I rode a camel and did some mountain biking and went offroading on the ATVs"
(WORK?!!!!???)

Mr B "You went mountain biking and rode a Camel?"

Mrs B "Yup - it was really cool"

Now dear readers, If there's one thing that Mrs Badeggs does not do, it's mountain biking. Likewise, I and the Badeggs daughter had discussed the possibility of Camel riding and had come to the conclusion that this, also, was not going to feature highly on any Mrs Badeggs wish list. Clearly we were wrong. And clearly the definition of "Work" is possibly being stretched  - just a teensy bit.

Mr B "I thought this was a big strategy get together thingy?"

Mrs B "Yeah that was in the morning. Then in the afternoon we do team building exercises"

Mr B "Riding Camels"

Mrs B "Yup. Anyway I need to get ready for tonite, we are off out for a meal, apparently it's out in the desert somewhere in a Bedouin tent"

Mr B "Oh, Ok, sounds fun"
(looks over at the basic constituents of the Badeggs basecamp dinner, which still has to be cooked, then casts eye to stuff that needs to be removed from the dishwasher, and the stuff that needs to go in afterwards, makes mental note to ensure homework gets done, listens to the sound of the rain lashing down outside...)

Mrs B "Anyway, gotta go, miss you both, see you very soon, love you"

Mr B "Miss you too & love you too, speak to you tomorrow"

Bless. Wish I could get some some of that there work...

Could I have a Do-Over?

I had to do it, didn't I. I couldn't just leave well enough alone. I couldn't keep my head down and put my hands over my ears and go LA LA LA, thus completing the ritual required to avoid being Bitten in the Ass by Fate.

No sooner did I post this meditation on the injustices of the English family courts system, than my ex-husband once again oozed out from the slime pit in which he dwells to sic (sick?) his particular brand of bitterness and retribution on me.

Yes, as of yesterday, my ex is once again claiming child support from me through that worm-ridden piece of filth bastion of equitability and fairness, the Child Support Agency. And because the laws in this country are utterly shambolic, I will end up having to pay something in the region of £250 per month--that's £250 that will disappear straight down my husband's throat in liquid form or into his lungs in tobacco or, more than likely, herbal form--despite the fact that my daughter lives with me precisely half of the time and I already foot the vast majority of her expenses such as school uniforms, field trips, extra-curricular activities, etc.

Honestly, it's enough to make a grown woman weep. What, is there some department that makes this stuff up? It makes you wonder....

Scene.

[Universe Inc., Bite Me Division switchboard]

Operator: Good afternoon, Universe Inc. Bite Me Division. How may I direct your call?

Lola: Uh... yeah, hi. Um, I need some information, please, about why my life is a continuing big-pile-of-steaming-dogshit suckfest.

Operator: That would be the Persecutions and Torment Department. Just transferring you.

[Cue hold music: 'What Have I done to Deserve This' by the Pet Shop Boys]

Persecutions and Torment Drone (PAT): Persecutions and Torment. Can I help you?

Lola: I hope so. Are you the department that's responsible for the never-ending round of shittitude that benights my every waking hour?

PAT: That would be us!

Lola: Right...

PAT: Do you have a question, Madam?

Lola: Well, yes, as it happens. I just want to know... why?

PAT: Why? As in "Why the shittitude?" Well... because we can.

Lola: Because you can. You basically think up nasty little shocks and upsets to visit upon me for no other reason than because you can?

PAT: That's correct. We have a divine governmental mandate.

Lola: To wreak havoc in decent people's lives.

PAT: If you'd like to put it that way. We prefer to describe our work as 'virtual violation'. All the fun of a night in the State Penitentiary with none of the mess!

Lola: Let me get this straight...You're the people who are responsible for sending me miscarriages, an ex-husband who is endlessly inventive about ways to suck the will to live (not to mention my cash) out of me, and a daily commute designed to cause maximum frustration and stress? You're the ones who make sure that every good thing that happens in my life is immediately counteracted by one or more beatings?

PAT: Now you're catching on.

Lola: But that's just awful! How on earth can I fight the system?

PAT: Well, have you spoken to your DR?

Lola: DR?

PAT: Your Deity Representative.

Lola: Sorry, you've lost me.

PAT: Ah, well, this could explain a lot. Your Deity Representative is appointed by the Fat Chance Division as a sort of checks and balances to our work. Let me just check your file... Badeggs...Badeggs...Ah! Here we go. Your DR is Jesus Christ. Nice fellow, him.

Lola: Jesus. Right. Well, actually, I did speak to him rather a lot until recently. He didn't help very much.

PAT: Huh! Go figure. Well, you could always try his mother. I hear she takes some consultancy work.

Lola: Well, yes, but, if JC is supposed to be my DR, shouldn't he be trying to help?

PAT: Yeah...he really should...Oh. Hang on a sec.

Lola: What? Have you found something?

PAT: Yes indeed I have, Madam. And I have to say that I'm a little peeved that you didn't come clean about this to start with. I feel like Oprah! I feel like the American public who voted for Dubya! I've been DUPED!

Lola: What on earth are you talking about?!

PAT: It's right here. You're on the blacklist for DR-related intervention.

Lola: What?! But...why?

PAT: As if you didn't know.

Lola: No! I really don't!

PAT: Back when you were 16 and you asked Jesus for a new car? And you promised to go to church every Sunday if he gave you one? Well, Madam, you got that car. And Jesus has noticed a distinct lack of your buns on a pew each Sunday.

Lola: Isn't that a little petty? I mean, for the risen Lord and all?

PAT: Unfortunately not, Madam. He takes these things very seriously. Granted, not as seriously as Allah, but, well, pretty seriously.

Lola: Hmm. So, I guess I'm screwed, huh.

PAT: Oh, you have no idea, Madam. Now, how would you like to take it?

End Scene.

Yes, But What Does it MEAN?

So, I've been thinking. All this infertility malarkey has been a real burr in my ass, and personally speaking, I don't want to leave this party empty-handed. I'm not talking about a baby, though obviously that is the ultimate party favour. No, I'm referring to something less tangible, yet still satisfying: I want to be remembered, honoured in some way for my contribution to the cause.

In much the same way that the word 'dooced' has entered urban slang thanks to this lovely lady, I want Lola to be laden with some deep miscarriage-y meaning. I'm thinking we could use it a bit like a golf scores. To wit:

Lola (lo' l) 1. n. three consecutive miscarriages. Ex.: Mrs Badeggs scored a Lola in her first year of marriage. 2. v. (e.g. to be Lola'd) to experience crushing loss despite repeated prayers. Ex.: When Mrs Badeggs saw the doctor's face, she knew she had been Lola'd again.

I think it could work. What do you think?

Reproduction Justification

There has been a lot of talk, lately, in Blogland, about our motivation for wanting children. I've seen deep soul-searching stemming from the need to truly understand whether a child is desired as its own end or because infertility has issued a challenge. I've seen bewilderment in the wake of another drive-by comment along the lines of: Why do you even want kids? My eleven drive me CRAZY! I've seen balanced arguments in favour of parenthood and always eloquent exegeses even when the source of the yearning is inexplicable.

But friends, there is only one answer as to why I, personally, want, nay require, another child. And it is this:

Someone has to teach me how to use the %$*&^"£ TiVo.

Last night I tried to record a programme for Mr Badeggs and managed to vex the TV so much that it stopped talking. No sound. Whatsoever. Mr Badeggs said it wasn't my fault, but I'm sure it was. And already my mobile phone is way beyond my capacity for comprehension. What ARE all these menus?! Seriously, I need a child who can grow up and then roll his* eyes in disgust and sigh loudly as mother once again has to have the basics of cellular technology explained to her. In really small words.

Forget survival of the species. I may not make it past middle age without a youngster to show me the way. My daughter is, unfortunately, as technologically challenged as I am, and I'm not convinced that Mr Badeggs isn't planning (even as we speak) on driving into the sunset in a Lotus Elise with a scantily clad spokesmodel/beer holder by his side. My only hope is to give birth to my own personal technology advisor and bribe him to stay with me in my dotage (so he can then work on the child-proof caps on my medication).

Is that really so selfish?

* Lest I attract anonymous spankings about how my bourgeois bitterness is showing again, as evidenced through my shameless use of the male pronoun...Please understand: I'm a lazy bitch and I couldn't be bothered to write 'he or she', 'him or her' every goddamn time. Sue me.