Pollyanna is a fickle bitch.
On the spur of the moment, Paul and I went to the coast this weekend. It did me enormous good to get out of the house, to stop reading esoteric medical abstracts, and to focus on something other than my very busy pelvis. (Unless I am entirely mistaken, that's the sequel to The Very Hungry Caterpillar.)
As far as symptoms go, I am feeling utterly normal, aside from tender breasts and tiredness, which I've had for a couple of weeks now. I did feel intensely flushed right around 9 PM over the past few nights, but I'm assuming it's the hormones surging happily.
Things look good. So why am I intent on preparing for the worst? When I was packing my overnight bag. I considered taking the Tylenol 3 and a supply of maxi-pads, just in case I miscarried over the weekend. I realized at the last minute how morbid I was being, and gave myself a stern exasperated talking-to.
What's wrong with me? As excited as I am, I can't stop acknowledging that it could all go horribly awry any minute now. I've let myself feel joy, but I still can't seem to squelch the random surges of pessimism. I did my level best to smother them in a pile of dismembered lobster carcasses. Didn't work, but you can't blame a girl for trying.