Hang On Little Tomato

Here is my first tomato! Peppers should soon follow and I cannot wait to distract myself with more gardening. It's much more fun than school work.

Reproductive Jeans wrote a very good post about Hope and I have to agree with everything she said. It is definitely something that I hold on to for dear life. It made me think about my own little irrational dance with the four letter word this week.

AF came right on time, the bitch, and I went about my business. On Sunday, though, it stopped. I mean, there was nothing. All of a sudden my mind started making up wild scenarios. What if that wasn't really my period? What if I was pregnant? Do I feel queasy? Do my boobs hurt? (Well, after poking at them they did). I went to bed trying not to hope, but hoping anyway. I went through the same fantasies in my head that I did every month. You know the ones. It's where you imagine telling your husband, then your family, then your friends. Everyone is so happy and excited for you. People tell you how cute you are going to look when your belly starts growing. I'll stop now.

I woke up the next morning and took my temperature - 97.66. Nope. I didn't even waste another test. AF came back with a vengance. I guess she forgot something in my uterus and had to go back for it.

Why do I do that to myself? As long as we are not officially diagnosed with any problems I can still believe that we have a good chance this month. I still have hope. At the very same time I imagine being told that not even modern technology can help us conceive. The two feelings exist simultaneously inside of my brain. At the heart of it all is fear, I suppose.

I keep thinking about a Buddhist saying - the root of all suffering is desire.
Tell me something I don't know.

In the mean time, I turn to Ms. Dickinson.


Hope by Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.