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Kindly old aunt, my ass

I find I sternly disapprove of the attempts to make this whole process seem warm and fuzzy. Take a look at any Internet message board where infertility is being discussed: You don't develop follicles; they're follies. You don't transfer embryos; they're embies. You don't bleed like a hemophiliac once every 28 days; you get a visit from your kindly old Aunt Flo.

If anything, mine's closer to being like Paul's evil grandmother. She was a crazy old bat who survived all her children by dint of pure meanness. In her declining years one of her grandchildren found her on the stairs, viciously kicking the shit out of her black leather handbag. "Uh, Grandmother...why are you kicking your handbag?" asked the grandchild. She paused, shook her head muzzily, and said, "Oh. I thought it was the cat."

That's my period.

So why do we (and by we I mean, well, they) feel the urge to make something cute out of infertility?