I'm B, otherwise known as Beth. I've been married for six years to a guy called D who I've known for 14 years, and been with for ten.
I have various sites around the internet, so we may already have crossed paths. I've been blogging at watching geordie life the longest, since 2007. It started as a lighthearted blog about life in Newcastle upon Tyne. In September 2008, I started posting pictures of Newcastle at Newcastle upon Tyne Daily Photo when the previous contributor, Cassandra, moved back to Michigan. Until recently, I'd never missed a day.
And in October 2008 I started a writing blog called non geordie writer.
And all was well.
D and I always wanted children. We hadn't really planned to wait before trying to get pregnant - we started talking about the possibility of children back in 2000 when we were first together. But first I lived in a different city to him. Then he was unemployed*. Then I was in a job I hated. Then he was in a job with crazy hours, and I hadn't been in my job long enough to get full maternity benefits. Then he got a job with better hours, but didn't want to be asking for time off for a new baby too soon.
And then it was last year.
*This doesn't sound like as good a reason for waiting as it used to.
In April 2009, after being married for five years, D and I started trying to conceive. I'd read Taking Control of Your Fertility and bought a basal body thermometer, and I enthusiastically started charting my cycles. I was happy to realise that even after ten years on the pill I was ovulating regularly and had a cycle length that averaged a perfect 28 days - sometimes 27, sometimes 29, but beautifully regular nonetheless. My luteal phase was a bit short at ten days, and I never noticed much cervical mucous, but I wasn't too worried yet. I was only 33. (Ha! 'Only' 33.) We were enjoying the practice. We were timing things well. I was confident that we wouldn't have to wait too long. I never bothered doing pregnancy tests; my temp always dropped after ten days. I was disappointed each month, but not devastated.
And then it was August. And for reasons that I couldn't articulate at the time, still can't articulate now - I was having no symptoms, there was no reason to think that that month was the one - I decided to do a pregnancy test on day 26 of my cycle, a mere 9 days after I'd ovulated. I expected it to be negative, and was really annoyed with myself for wasting an expensive digital test. I woke up at 6.30am as usual, went to the bathroom. Peed on a stick and sat and waited.
I nearly died of shock when the digital display changed to 'Pregnant 1-2 Weeks'.
We were going to a football match that night. D had never been to a football match before. I'd been to one once, long ago, in Germany. We went for a meal beforehand. I knocked over a glass of water - caught it just before it hit the table - and blamed being pregnant for my clumsiness. (Really, I'm just clumsy.) We were so amazed. So happy.
I went to the library and got out four books on pregnancy. I went to WHSmiths and bought a beautiful journal to write about my pregnancy.
And life went on.
(for the middle, click here)