I have a bad habit of…staying up far, FAR too late than is good for me. Far too many times.
Let me give you some examples.
I’ve developed a reputation for being a ‘Great Late Night IMer’ with such wonderful bods as Kristen and Kristi. Bear in mind (if you will) that ‘late night’ their time is approx 5 hours behind GMT (my time).
WonderAunty now sends me text messages telling me to go to bed (at whatever-past-midnight), and when I argue back that I could be in bed, she sends a follow-up reminding me that she can see the time-stamp on the comments I’m leaving here on Considerings. And tells me to hop it.
Christine has (on occasion) employed a cut-off point after which she may not speak to me at all, in deference to the absolute silliness of the hour I’m *still* awake at.
Rich was incredulous at his first taste of the hours I keep, having bid me goodnight after a long chat, only to return an hour later to find I was still there, chatting away.
I sometimes manage to get my ‘next day’ post into blog hops or daily link-ups first. Or pretty close to the beginning. Link-ups which go live in the morning. In the US.
Husby’s face has begun to take on a look of trepidation every time he asks me what time I went to bed (and presses for the truth when I’m evasive about it)
I often see sunrise. From the other side.
If my sleep debt was with a bank, they would have foreclosed on my everything and I’d be underneath a bridge somewhere in a cardboard box, desperately trying to freeload someone’s wifi.
If I could get the ‘net intravenously, I might just.
The problem is that England’s boring (alright, it’s not really) and I’ve managed somehow to fall in with a group of wonderful Americans, who (to a man) exhibit that wonderful lightness of being and joie de vivre which makes them so attractive to hang out with.
My American friends come online ready for their evening as I (should) begin to think about shutting down the computer and going to bed. And it sucks, because I feel like the little kid in the gang who gets called home early for a bath and bed, while the big kids – the cool kids, get to stay out late, driving around the town by streetlight, carousing and having fun.
I’ve not got the start date for my new job yet, but I know that when that fateful day arrives, it will mark the end of (most of) my indulgent evenings online, kidding myself that I really can be in their gang. Because from then, I’ll be relegated to the sidelines, kunckling under the new ‘early night regime’, watching with envy from my bedroom window as they fling their bags into their cars, exchange high-fives and zoom off into the night together to have fun without me.
My Big Reveal happened on Tuesday – I had an article published over at ScaryMommy.com. It was *SO* well received I slightly frightened myself. Judging by the comments and the shares, it tapped into something pretty damn big, very real, and still rather taboo.
Judge for yourself: Coping with Miscarriage
And (to brag a little because it was *so* incredible) a screenshot of the social media stats from the end of the first day. To some this may be small, small dice, but as I am only a baby-blogger, I was suitably impressed.
On that point, (the point where I step up once again to my soapbox and try to bring a little sunshine (Andi – if you ever read this, I *totally* only just got that) to the topic of miscarriage, which is still plagued with taboo, mystery and unfamiliarity) I’d love to give a massive shout-out to Katia, who blogs at I am the milk, whose series of donated posts surrounding miscarriage have been nothing short of incredible.
In-CREDIBLE. I absolutely promise.
And not just because I was involved. I am honoured to feature amongst truly great writers.
The other person well-deserving of merit and more shouting out than I can manage alone is the ever-gorgeous Kristi, whose heart is so massively compassionate that her desire to make the world a better place spilled out over her blog and created an entirely new world: Our Land – a place of empathy and wonder, where the marginalised, the overlooked and the misunderstood can stand strong, lift their voice and proclaim unity, togetherness and a desire to open the minds of those in the dark about such issues as disability, immigration, miscarriage and infertility, autism, belonging and fixing it so that we *all* can be a part of this magical, vital place.
Syphylissa (Niece’s creepy doll from the fair, which I refuse to let her have) displays a new disgusting habit nearly every day now! Insufficient for her, the ‘go-go-juice’ so adored by Honey Boo-Boo types everywhere…no, no, she has to go the whole hog.
So I stopped in the middle of writing this to attend a fertility appointment. If you don’t fancy a downturn in mood, skip ahead to #7. Consider yourself amply warned.
We arrived late, having somehow marked down the wrong time from the letter (in spite of double checking it at the time – either it was me or the NHS admin) and were whizzed straight in, accompanied by glares from the nurse, having just avoided Did Not Arrive status.
The fertility specialist gave us his usual limp handshake and asked how Husby was doing. He clicked a few buttons on the computer and printed some referral forms for us to fill out our details on, so that they can be sent away (now I meet criteria (by being 30) and *might* be eligible for fertility treatment). He then tried to cheerily send us away.
“Wait, can I just ask about a few things?” he looked disgruntled (we were late, after all) and responded minimally to my query about whether the clinic had anything to do with embryo adoption, saying that we should explore the possibility of conceiving our own first.
And back into the goodbye routine.
“I had my ultrasound a while back – was that all alright?” a distinctly annoyed look flashed across his face. “I hadn’t looked – let me just bring it up on the computer. Nope, it’s all fine.”
We were out of there within five minutes.
And while it’s true to say that I had purposely worked hard at not building up any hopes about this appointment, I had kind of hoped for a *little* more than to be sent away like a naughty child with some homework to get back to him (on closer inspection, much of the detail is his to fill in – I am merely saving him some paperwork time)
So on the way home, I tried to be brazen about it. And failed.
I tried to explain it to Husby with a quote that one of the ladies at You, Me and Infertility posted:
I paraphrased, but his response “Wow! That’s stark!” was absolutely right. It is absolutely bleakly, horrendously, barrenly stark.
He then admitted that he understood ‘it’s hard for me’. Well, no kidding. And thanks for the understanding.
He’s still so good at putting it from his mind – at closing the lid on it and leaving it to one side until the ever-present question mark can finally be answered. And I’m so not.
It took one blackberry, gathered on the way home to test the ripeness.
It was tart and too sour yet, but reminded me that we love making home-brewed wine.
Reminded me that there’s wine in the cupboard.
Reminded me that it takes the edge off the screaming and screaming in my head.
Reminded me that I’m developing a crutch.
Reminded me that I’m not sure if I care.
Reminded me that oblivion (no matter the after-effects) is at least time out from being in my brain.
Reminded me that a sea of booze won’t bring back my Neverborns or Husby’s fertility.
Reminded me that it helps anyway.
Reminded me that I’m afraid.
My sweet friend, Shanique, sent me this song, which made me cry so hard, but which I love as equally as I wish it wasn’t relevant to me, or to anyone.
And on Twitter, Veronica Valli was advertising her alcohol-awareness post ‘Are you frightened too?‘
And for now, I haven’t gone back for a second drink. And I’m gonna try to keep it that way.
[Edit: I didn’t have the second drink. I went for ice-cream and spent time with people. And it helped.]
For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!