Um, so

I'm just going to come right out and say it.
The pregnancy test was negative.
As much as I stood there willing that second line to appear...it didn't.
Actually it did, but that was after, like, 15 minutes and that's what is supposed to happen to everyone.

God, it was devastating. Or maybe that's too strong a word. Disappointing, definitely.
I don't know, I've had a full day on the scariest, twistiest part of the rollercoaster - maybe I'm just at the jaded "I've got no more emotion left" stage of the evening.
I did the test at 5.50am, as soon as I got up - it was that early cos I had a business breakfast to get to. I stood there for a few minutes - again willing that second line into as much existence as I hoped little embie had.

Nothing.

So I deliberately covered it with the pamphlet and had a shower. That killed about seven minutes or so.
Then I ripped the pamphlet out of the way as soon as I got out of the shower, desperately hoping that second line was staring back at me.
It wasn't.
There's a reason that saying "my heart sank" is so common. Cliche or not, it actually happens.
My heart sank.
Literally.
T kept popping her sleepy adorable head in and out of the bathroom to check on me, reassure me, re-read the instructions.
I didn't want to believe it...and I instantly thought of the blog post I had put up not 12 hours before about how I felt pregnant.
Obviously wishful thinking...
But then Jay stirred, I looked at the clock, realised make-up and clothes were an immediate necessity and life sort of went on.
I hurried into Jay first and have him an extra 15 strong hugs - he must have wondered what the hell was going on.
And that's when the tears started. Because I was right back to the time when T had done the test that showed up positive...and what a positive!
What a result! Here he is in my arms...and now I have to wait that bit longer until it happens to me.
But this disappointment is not something to dwell on, far from it.
The fact - and Lordy, as a journo, I am clinging to my facts at this point - is that we have seven more embryos in the freezer ready to go.
The fact is T did not have that luxury.
And the fact is it is impossible to stay cynical or depressed with a two-year-old in the house.

We were kicking the footy inside tonight, I know, not overly good parenting right there - but they are baby kicks, and he had that toddler chuckle thing happening every time I booted it to the door.
Each time he would race up and grab the ball, then bring it back to me, grinning.
Each time I would ask him if he wanted to kick it or throw it, and each time he would say "BB, BB".

On about the fourth or fifth time, he handed me the ball and I gestured back toward him.
"Jay?" I asked him.

And whether by some delightful Freudian slip or some deliberate act on his blessed little behalf, he said "no, mummy, mummy".

Now in our house so far there has been a clear distinction between mummy (T) and me (BB). We just figure it's easier that way - for now.
But tonight he called me mummy.
I don't know about you, but it was symbolic to me. My eyes welled up and I gave him yet another squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hugs, before kicking the footy to the door once more.
Moments that not only make you smile, they remind you that what you've already got is really quite spectacular.

We are so, so lucky.


The symbolic last tube of Crinone, left, and the pregnancy test (both unused for anti-yuk reasons)