It's like cosmic, reproductive roulette: I am (technically) pregnant, yet I am also not (yet) pregnant. Will we end up with 2, 1, or 0 babies (we are not entertaining the prospect of 3, thank-you-very-much)? Will we finally get a beta number that is a real integer and a 5-week ultrasound, or cramps and a Trip to the Prom with Carrie?
One or both of our 8-cell transfers should be blasts today, ready to hatch from their little zonas and burrow into their new digs. I don't know what's become of our 4-cell transfer -- whom we've named "Wonky" -- but I sure hope s/he is having a ball with his/her brother(s)/sister(s) up in my lady business while it lasts.
My expectations remain in decent check, mostly because of the immense distractions of this past week, but the reality that I could reasonably start peeing on absorbent objects in less than a week and get a result is not lost on me. I probably will. I mean, it's been months since I've golden showered a plastic stick and I am jonesin'.
One week. One week. One week. Obsess much?