A strawberry on top


Eight days to go until I find out if I am pregnant this month (I am not even apologising for obsessing these days). I have a feeling I am not. The clincher usually comes around three days before Aunt Flo comes to visit, when the cramps come for me, without fail. At least my body runs like clockwork, which is a plus in the babymaking business.

In the meantime, I am focusing on Rufus and on work. Walking along in the sunshine on the weekend Rufus told me I was the strawberry on the cake for him. He often disarms me with his sweetness and the way he looks after me, and I want to focus more on us, and what we have, than what we don’t have.

An email from one of my oldest school friends brought news of her third pregnancy last week, and I felt a kind of weary jealousy when I read it, then an uptick in hope at the thought that she is exactly my age and happily churning out babies. So I slipped into thinking about what we don’t have – A BABY! – before wrenching my thoughts back to the long, happy list of family, friends, interesting work, etc etc etc – a veritable bowl of strawberries. With cream on top.

 

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