My RE phoned to say we have great embryos. Great. Can you believe it? And lots. Lots and lots. Ok, maybe not lots and lots because we are probably capable of zooming through many but we have lots. It's a wonderful feeling, it feels like a little lift from a balloon that keeps me from hitting the bottom with a thud, someone's arm holding me up and keeping me from getting too low.
The fact that they were not my eggs feels less important too. I'm excited. It's just odd comments that get to me and get me thinking of yak breeding on the Russian steppes.
"His younger daughter, his real daughter, she's very warm with us always," says my mother-in-law, "But you know his older daughter has different genes, she's adopted, so it's understandable."
I can practically see H tear off his shirt to reveal SuperHusband underneath, "Look at Carlynn and her sisters," he says, swooping in and grabbing the falling concrete block before it crushes me.
I play with the salt and wonder about buying a book on yak cheese making.
"The same parents and 3 very different personalities," continues H and the conversation moves on to one of my sisters, who can provide enough stuff to talk about for hours, and I am suitably distracted.
I suspect this is not the last comment like that from either my mother-in-law or my mother. Fortunately, and ironically, the men in our families are a little more tactful. Or maybe they just talk less and the opportunities for gaffs are fewer.