It was the damn pregnancy tests. I knew I should have just left them on the shelf for the nervous, twitching 18 year old lingering back on aisle 12 in Target. It was a sign. But no, I had to brazenly lean down to the ladyparts section of the "feminine" aisle and pluck up the last box of EPTs with impunity. I'm an adult, I rationalized. I pay taxes. I want to get pregnant. I can buy pregnancy tests because I am a tax paying, pregnancy wanting adult and must be prepared when I need to test after my lining plumps up like a Chia Pet and my blastopops are transferred into the promised land.
It was the wrong move. I tempted fate. I counted my non-hatched chickens. I got cocky. I got cancelled.
My uterus eeked out a miserly lining of 6.2. Traitorous bitch.
I was given the choice if I wanted to go forward, but my RE advised against it. Why not instead try a greater dosage of estrogen and get it up where it needs to be next month? I've only got two on ice, so she wants to get it as close to perfect as possible. Makes sense. This is going to work, she says.
I'm ok. Disappointed. But ok.
I think shopping will help. But not at Target.