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The state of the uterus address

In no particular order, some thoughts from the last few days:

My breasts are tender and enormous, not unlike the hyperbasted upholstery of a Butterball turkey. I can't seem to find the plastic pop-up timer the package promised, but I'm told I'll be done when my thigh joint wiggles freely in its socket.

I know that after ovulation, the corpus luteum produces progesterone. What I don't know is whether ovulating from many follicles produces a whole mess of corpus luteum cysts — did you like how nimbly I managed to sidestep coming up with a plural for "corpus luteum"? — and therefore a greater surge of progesterone than usual.

Last time I was pregnant, I tested positive on ten days past ovulation. I don't know how many days past ovulation I am today. After I learned that I might have ovulated early, I started to feel it happen: imagine the sensation of bubble wrap being popped in your pelvis. But those were the tiny follicles, as the big one was already gone by then.

In conversation I called the big one a red giant, which made my geeky husband snort with surprised delight.

I don't have plans to test this cycle. I am psychotic enough to be hopeful, but sane enough to be pragmatic.

This doesn't mean I won't test. It just means I don't have six pregnancy tests lined up in a ready phalanx under the bathroom sink. That space is currently occupied by the half-dozen empty boxes from the tests I used last cycle. I must make plans to sneak them out discreetly.

The cool thing about ovulating early is that I can expect my period earlier. I would prefer not to bleed in February — nothing would please me more than keeping the disappointment confined to January, which has proven so far to be no more than a hateful extension of a hateful, hateful 2003.

I always look for the silver lining.

I want to be pregnant this cycle just so I can earnestly tell my doctor I'm sure it's sextuplets.