Seven

Hi Succotash.

I'm home. A bit woozy. A bit high. Some pain, but at least this time I was expecting it, and your would-be aunt made sure I had some drugs just in case, so I am no longer afraid of what's happening. Is pain more manageable when you expect it, or understand it? I don't know.

Anyway. I'm home. I'm a bit high. And we got seven eggs. Seven!

Honestly, I thought there was a good chance we'd only get three or four. Seven is a surprise.

Now, we wait. Today I will spend lying on the couch in a semi-drugged haze. Tomorrow they will call and tell us how many fertilized. They - you? - are presently hanging out in lab slurry made of my carefully harvested membranes and blood. Like the goo Neo wakes up in in the Matrix. Which is already a dated reference, and will essentially be to you as.... I was going to say Saturday Night Fever is to me, but that's not right, because that movie came out the year I was born. More accurate would be a movie that came out in 1968.

I'm too high to think of movies that came out in 1968 right now. Medium Cool? Let's call it Medium Cool.

Anyway.

I've done my part. Now it's up to you. Your job is to stew and divide. Stew and divide. Stew and divide. Luxuriate in the slurry. I worked hard to make that slurry for you, and so did several smug overpaid doctors. So enjoy it, okay?

And then on Sunday, you'll get to luxuriate in me.

That playful tone you detect in my blog entry is called "hope," Succotash. I've tried my best to keep it at bay, and intellectually I know the wiser course of action would be to hold it at arm's length. Or further - leg's length. I'm just so unaccustomed to hearing serendipitous good news. This might be the very first time, since we started this project, that it's happened.