Hubby has an interview scheduled for Monday. It will be his third such interview for an academic job since April. (And his first since the heartbreaking “My academic career is over” comment.) It’s for a one-year position on the opposite side of the country.
As he tends to do, Hubby is already thinking about how we’ll manage such a big move in such a short time (the job would start before the school year begins on September 3), where we’ll live, how we’ll get there, how many classes he’ll have to teach, and, of course, whether or not he’ll have a pregnant wife in tow.
It’s hard not to get carried away with him, but, as I explained to Dr. N today, when the crash comes, the inevitable disappointment, he bounces back from it much more quickly than I do. So I’ve asked him to take it a little easy on me this time.
Speaking of therapy, Dr. N said I was much “brighter” today. It’s true. I’m trying my best to stay positive about this cycle and the potential outcome. I’m trying to believe in Hubby’s “rule of 3,” that we somehow have three good things coming our way:
- Our three beautiful blasts (already) on ice.
- A great beta on Wednesday.
- A job offer.
Is this too much to hope for?
Meanwhile, I’m catching myself every time I start to symptom-spot. Those twinges in my abdomen? Definitely constipation. (Ugh, the constipation.) Sore boobs? Obviously the PIO injections Hubby shoots into my ass every night.
And the dreams? Lord help me, the dreams. Babies and breastfeeding all night long. Waking up is torture. But I’m sure this is all the result of reading y’all’s blog posts on these subjects. It’s no premonition.
Oh, how I wish it was.