Kidding myself

My period is due today. I know the likelihood of it not coming are absolutely minute, but I can't stop myself from hoping. This is where my optimism falls down. Every month I set myself up for disappointment by thinking that somehow one of my husband's little fellas will successfully make the long and arduous journey to my egg.

My husband only has about 10% of the normal healthy sperm that he needs, but that's still a battalion of millions. It would only take one brave little sperm to fight against adversity and keep swimming, passing so many fallen comrades, but enduring, ever onward to the prize at the end of the road.

I spend the days before my period comes examining my body for signs of something being different, although it should be borne in mind that I haven't experienced early pregnancy for 13 years. I'm looking for a glow in my cheeks, signs of nausea, changes in the colour of sensitivity of my nipples. They're never there, but I think sometimes I convince myself that they are. Such is my desperation for them.

Inevitably, my period comes and I feel such a crushing sense of disappointment. It's really hard to accept the failure of our bodies to do what they were designed to do. Every single month. Of course, the misery is helped along nicely by hormones and pains and bleeding. My poor husband just waits for the onslaught of tears when I tell him that I've come on.

You'd think that all this would be enough to stop me hoping that something will be different next month, but in fact, it almost has the opposite effect. I use the hope of the next month to get me through each period and I look forward to feeling excited and positive again. So perhaps the optimism isn't all bad.

So now, I'm going to go and enjoy what's left of my delusion that one little chap reached his destination safely and changed my life in doing so.