I Get So Emotional…

Last night was the first dose of Clomid. Although I was fully prepared for all of the lovely side effects (hot flashes, blurry vision, and tons of other exciting ones,) I was severely let down. I felt nauseous for about 2 hours, that was it. Really though, out of roughly 12 things I got one, and barely can I even say that.

Talk about boring and non eventful. There’s always a chance that tonight and tomorrow I could feel differently, or the day after that. Maybe because I’ve read so many horror stories about what other women have gone through while taking Clomid, I’ve mentally made the decision to NOT have any side effects. Don’t laugh; it is a thing, my dad used to tell us all the time and still does, “think healthy thoughts.” So thinking healthy thoughts, rather than the notion of potential breast tenderness or extreme pelvic pain is what I am doing. Let’s not be fooled, the minute I have any massive side effects you’ll hear me shrieking and cursing from wherever you’re sitting.

But alas, the title of this blog post. Whitney wasn’t the spokesperson for ideal parenting, but even in a drug induced stupor she could belt out a tune. At work today, I was listening to my playlist with my noise cancelling headphones on, and there I was bopping my head, tapping my foot, and singing in a hushed voice:

“I get so emotional, baby
Every time I think of youuuuuu
I get so emotional, baby…”

How melodramatic, and I can hardly carry a tune, so you know it wasn’t a good time for my coworkers. (Tell me that right now, that you aren’t humming that song. Hahahahaha…gotcha!) These days the emotional roller coaster I’m on is full of up and downs: irate, slightly hopeful, annoyed, embarrassed, completely slap happy, indifferent, and exhausted. I’m like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get. One minute I’m compulsively thinking about potential nursery decor and color schemes, and an hour later I want to throw a massive temper tantrum. I assume that like wine, they get better with age. You’ve been warned.

What I find completely fascinating is that I don’t think about the actual future child we will have. I don’t wonder about hair color, eye color, temperament, sleeping habits, whether we will have a boy or a girl, let alone the notion of MULTIPLES, or anything that makes “future baby” seem like a tangible end result. Twisted isn’t it? Know what I love talking about, and actually obsess over?  Baby names. Which is of course completely absurd, because there’s nothing more identifiable than a name. It doesn’t matter, I talk about them compulsively, gender neutral options, girls, boys, classic, familial, and even the plain crazy ones, you know the name that has 2-3 silent letters in it for “effect.” I love talking about names!  On the flipside of thinking about names, the littlest things will set me off, and it varies from day to day. Sometimes my reactions are completely perfunctory, and on other days I’m a complete sociopath. Again, the warning has been issued.

Second Clomid pill has been downed with an individual sized Friendly’s Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup sundae…and with that, I’m signing off!


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